Ensign Interrupted
by deepfathom
Summary: It started with a friendly conversation between two newly-acquainted Enterprise crew members. One mysterious message and a brush with death later, Ensign Chekov is thrown into a supernatural race against time to save not only himself, but an entire civilization.
1. Prologue

**(A/N: Well, I didn't end up changing as much as I thought I would, and I'm feeling better about it, sooo...I'm putting it back. Yay!)**

* * *

 **Prologue**

Everybody aboard the _Enterprise_ at least knew about the Russian prodigy sitting up front with the big guys if they had not already met him. Everybody knew he was on the cusp of graduating into adulthood in impressively good shape, but still, in many ways, a teenager. Everybody realized he was ridiculously young to be serving aboard a Starfleet vessel, especially its flagship, and respected him for his dedication and maturity, but no one had ever seen him quite like this.

He was sure no one in the history of Starfleet had ever been this late for anything and he vowed to any higher power in the galaxy that he never would be again. That old-fashioned digital alarm clock he was so fond of was perfectly functional and had served its purpose faithfully for years…until now. Now that he had an actual job with actual duties to perform and report to actual people who actually depended on him.

Still trying to cram one foot into a boot, Ensign Pavel Chekov hopped around a corner on the other, garnering some questioning and mildly amused looks from those passing by. When the boot finally cooperated and he had full use of both legs, he became a blur of gold and grey, running his fingers through his curly hair and tugging at his crooked uniform in hopes of making himself somewhat presentable.

He took the next turn a little wide, speeding past a group of chatting science officers and bumping into the one closest to him.

"Sorry!" he called over a shoulder to the young woman. "Wery sorry!"

"No worries!" she called back, but the reply never made it through the swarm of panicked thoughts whirling inside Chekov's mind.

Would he be in trouble? Would he be banished from the bridge and thrown off the _Enterprise_ forever? Could this be the end of his short career? Wait, wait, no, that seemed a little extreme. Where was his brain when he needed it? Oh, that's right, he'd left it in bed along with his dignity.

Another shipmate waved as he dashed by. "Morning, Ensign—whoa!"

"Werysorryheftorun!"

"Wha…?"

 _Ok, calm down, be rational…_

Arms flailing as he spun into the hallway leading to the lift, he skidded to a stop, finding his way blocked by a sturdy wall of red. So much for calm and rational.

"Ensign Chekov," growled the biggest of the four security officers standing in front of him.

His name, if he remembered correctly, was Hendorff. Chekov had never met him personally, but rumor had it he could incapacitate an angry, drunken Klingon warrior by himself, no weapons involved. Not hard to believe. What did he want with a frantic teenaged ensign, though?

"Y-yes…sir?" gasped Chekov, voice coming out a bit squeakier than he would have liked. Already one drop short of an emotional dam failure, he nearly died when two of the large men lurched forward and seized him by the arms without any explanation whatsoever. "Hey! What's going—"

"You're coming with us," Hendorff said. It was simple. A command, not a request.

"Uh-bu-bu…" the young man spluttered as they began to tug him toward the lift. "What is heppening? What did I—I didn't mean to be late, I swear! It was just mistake—"

"The captain wants to see you. On the bridge."

"I was already on my way there! Why do I need to be escort—"

"Quiet," said Hendorff, stepping into the lift and beckoning the rest to follow. "You're in enough trouble as it is."

At that, Chekov immediately closed his mouth, mostly to avoid throwing up. The ride up was short, but incredibly awkward and he found himself almost happy to be pushed onto the bridge when it ended.

The scene he stumbled into was a textbook, picture perfect starship bridge; nothing out of the ordinary, everything smooth, calm, professional. Instruments whirred and blinked with fine-tuned precision as Sulu sat at the helm, Uhura manned the communications console, Spock hovered by the science station, and the captain occupied his chair. Actually, things seemed to be moving along perfectly fine without him, almost as if he'd never existed in the first place. Why had he even bothered launching himself out of bed at all?

"We've found him, Captain," said Hendorff.

The typical, familiar hum of a tightly running bridge continued without so much as a hitch as Kirk swiveled to face them, cool, collected, and unreadable.

"Ah, Mister Chekov." The greeting was not a welcoming one. He nodded at the security team. "Thank you, gentlemen, that'll be all."

"Aye, Captain," said Hendorff and the four men retreated to the lift and disappeared behind the sliding doors.

Now it was just Chekov standing there, front and center and feeling more like an irresponsible adolescent with every second. At least the rest of the staff was too busy doing their jobs…which, he realized with a gut-sinking feeling, was what he should have been doing at that moment too. He _was_ part of this crew, after all. Well, had been, anyway.

"Well, Ensign," Kirk went on, "glad to see you've finally decided to grace us with your presence."

"Er…yes, h-hello, sir…" It took every shred of control left in Chekov's being not to slap himself. Not to mention he only then realized that his boots where on the wrong feet and he was still wearing his retainer. Great. Now he could look _and_ sound like a total idiot at the same time.

The superior officer blinked beneath raised eyebrows. "'Hello, sir'?"

Chekov gulped, blanching a little as Captain Kirk stood up, and suddenly, the possibility of being thrown off the ship didn't seem so improbable anymore.

"At attention, Ensign!"

The teen's reaction to the barked command was automatic. His body snapped into position, back ramrod straight, arms at his sides, heels together, chin up, chest out, and eyes forward.

"Much better. Now, you're nearly twenty-five minutes late for duty on the bridge…" he left Chekov hanging a moment, seeming to enjoy it, " _twenty-five_ …and all I get from you is a 'hello, sir'?"

"Yes, sir. I—I mean, no—" He flinched at the jab to the ribs the captain gave him before starting a slow, vulture-like circle around him.

Was this seriously happening?

"And look at you, you're a wreck. Hair uncombed, uniform inside-out…"

Already struggling to remain still, Chekov broke stiff formality long enough to sneak a glance down at his shirt—which was indeed inside out and possibly backwards—and instantly regretted it.

"Pardon me for interrupting, but we're not finished, here."

"Yes, sir." The navigator's head popped back up.

"Within the last thirty seconds, do you, Mister Chekov, ever recall me telling you to stand at ease?"

"N-no, sir. Not at all, sir."

This was getting exponentially worse. What he wouldn't give to crawl off to the transporter room and beam himself down to the nearest deserted Class M planet.

"Have you even brushed your teeth today?"

 _Had_ he?!

"I…I don't remember, sir." It was an honest answer.

Unamused, Kirk came to a stop at the boy's side. "Mister Chekov, I want you to take a look over there at the helm."

 _This is it. This is really, really it. This is the part where he tells me in front of everybody to get my disgraceful, teenaged behind off his bridge. Congratulations Pavel, you idiot, you just earned yourself a one-way ticket onto the first shuttle back to earth…_

Stomach snarling into a knot of dread, Chekov followed his gaze.

"Something's missing. Something important and _crucial_ to the full functionality of this ship. Something none of us here on the bridge even want to imagine being without. What's missing, Mister Chekov?"

"M-me…sir?"

To his utter astonishment, Captain Kirk's expression of stark displeasure split into a wide smile, eyes glinting mischievously.

"Exactly."

Chekov's jaw dropped open, but the small, confused noise that came out of it was lost in a cacophony of cheers and clapping from around the bridge.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

The ensign's heart skipped several beats as he blinked at the beaming faces of those he had grown to consider his closest friends and family.

"Nice going, Jim," came Dr. McCoy's remark as the commotion fell. "I thought the plan was to prank the kid, not traumatize him for life at the age of eighteen."

Chekov twitched, but was still too stunned to drop the stance.

Eighteen?

He, Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov of the Starship _Enterprise_ …was eighteen years old.

"It's ok, Chekov, relax," the captain prompted with a chuckle, laying a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You're not in trouble, we were just messing with you."

All eyes migrated to him and he sensed them deciphering every expression, gauging every reaction, waiting for him to either confirm or deny the success of their joint covert endeavor.

"I'm…eighteen?" Chekov laughed, allowing himself to loosen. "I'm eighteen!"

"Heyyy, you finally noticed!" Sulu said, coming up beside him. "We were starting to worry there for a second."

Chekov snorted. " _You_ were starting to worry? Speaking of which, I want you to all to know zat you are ze worst friends ever and I will never forgive you."

"Oh, we know. That's why we got you this." Grinning, Sulu pushed a small, ribbon-bound bundle into his hands. "How do you forget your own birthday, anyway?"

"I…I don't know," Chekov shrugged, stumbling to his seat at the navigation console and sinking into the chair in a haze of disbelieving happiness. "I guess when I was assigned to ze _Enterprise_ I wasn't really thinking about what would happen on my birthday. Or zat it mattered."

"It is only logical that we should observe the day of your birth, Ensign," Spock, replied, "as birthdays are an important part of human culture and—"

Swinging around, the captain shot him an annoyed look. "I swear," he muttered through his teeth, "if anybody knows how to kill a moment, it's you."

"Of course it matters, laddie!" Scotty picked up, appearing from somewhere behind to bestow a hearty thump on Chekov's back. "We're a family, and yeh cannae be par' of a family without gettin' royally pranked on yer birthday."

"Well, it worked." Chekov said with a pained cringe. "You had me going there for a while, zat is for sure. I…guess I didn't do myself any favors by waking up late, which, by ze way, Keptin, I am wery sorry about and it won't heppen—"

"Ah-ah, not so fast," Kirk interjected, "it was all part of the plan."

"Oh, _now_ what?" Chekov huffed in feigned exasperation. "Can I trust any of you anymore?"

"Fill'im in, Sulu."

"I kinda swiped and sabotaged your alarm clock last night while we were talking in your quarters." Sulu replied, sounding more amused than guilty. "You were totally oblivious, never noticed a thing."

"Haha, until five minutes ago." Chekov retorted, but smiled brightly as warmth bloomed in his cheeks. "Thank you, everyone. I…I don't know what to say."

Having descended from the communications console, Uhura wrapped her arms around his neck while the rest of his friends congregated.

"You don't have to say _anything_ , dork." She graced him with a playful noogie. "Turning eighteen is a big deal and there's no _way_ we would've let that slip by unnoticed. Not on our watch. Now open your present already!"

There was a chorus of agreement, then the crew held its breath collectively as Chekov slid the ribbon from the bundle and rolled it open to reveal…

"'Made…In Russia'?" He examined the bold words printed on the t-shirt in his native language above a fluttering Russian flag, a smile of pure delight spreading over his face. Without hesitation, he pulled it on right over his uniform.

"It's…it's _perfect_!" The teen struck a cheesy heroic pose. "How do I look?"

"It is not within the regulation dress code for service on the bridge—"

"Seriously, Spock?" Kirk again swiveled to eye the Vulcan.

"I am always serious, Captain." The first officer said without skipping a beat. "I was merely bringing to your attention a matter of possible protocol breach."

"No, I mean 'seriously', as in 'seriously, can't we ever have just one moment where you don't'—okay, you know what? Forget it. Who wants cake?"

…

Chekov was still sporting the shirt hours later when his shift ended. Naturally, Spock was right. It didn't exactly fit within the parameters of standard Starfleet uniform policies, but no one had the heart to tell the young crewman to take it off.

His second trip through the ship's corridors that day was slower and much less stressful. He still got some odd looks, but chalked it up to people trying to read the message on his impressive new wardrobe addition. Every once in a while, when somebody squinted longer than a few seconds, he made a deliberate point to start humming the Russian national anthem simply for the fun of it. Or simply because today was his birthday. Or both.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he approached the entrance to his quarters. Not that he didn't enjoy being surrounded by his best friends on a dream job most his age couldn't even fathom, it was just that he, like any other normal person, needed his own space at the end of the day. This was where he checked all work-related worries at the door, the one place aboard the _Enterprise_ he could truly call his own, his tiny slice of Russia away from Russia. No uniform regulations, no commands to follow, and best of all, the obligation of speaking in Standard was barely an afterthought.

 _Also, where sleep is top priority,_ he mused, now realizing how tired he was. His day had certainly opened with a bang and he intended to close it on a more peaceful note by flopping into bed the moment he cleared the threshold. Unable to hold back a yawn, he reached for the touchpad…

"Pavel!"

Chekov turned to see Lieutenant Uhura jogging toward him, long, dark hair swinging back and forth from its perch atop her head. He often found himself wondering how she managed such a feat of a ponytail day after day. He didn't believe in magic or the supernatural, of course, but occasionally that glossy, perfect hairdo came close to convincing him otherwise. How else could it be explained? Certainly not physics.

"Pasha, wait a second!" She slowed to a stop, one hand behind her back and holding something out to him with the other. "You left this on the bridge."

Mortified, Chekov snatched his retainer from the palm of her hand, shoving it deep into a pocket. Of all the stupid, random pieces of junk he could have misplaced…

"Those things are so annoying, right?" she went on, seeming to sense his embarrassment. "I've never told anyone, but I still had mine when I first got to the Academy."

The corner of Chekov's mouth quirked upward. "You…you did?"

She laughed. "Yep, sure did. I accidentally threw it out after lunch one day and had to go dumpster diving for it. Classic retainer fail, right?"

The woman radiated intelligence and confidence, was the very essence of graceful strength under pressure, and could pack a punch should the need arise, but it was her remarkable kindness and caring behind the scenes that ultimately defined her. And once she'd adopted you as one of her virtual siblings, she had your back for life. Her sharp wit and loving compassion rarely made their effects visible on the face of her Vulcan boyfriend, but there was no denying Commander Spock was a lucky, lucky guy.

Chekov couldn't help but reveal a full-on smile. "Did you find it?"

"Ha, yeah, like two hours and two missed classes later. You should've seen the looks on my instructors' faces when I tried to explain _that_ one. But seriously, here we are in the twenty-third century and kids all over the galaxy are _still_ stuck with wires and plastic. And you'd think they'd at least develop some sort of tracking technology for them, but no, we have to go explore the farthest reaches of space instead. No way like the old-fashioned way, I guess."

Uhura giggled along with the younger officer as he dissolved into a laugh, then pursed her lips tightly together as if struggling to hold in something exciting.

"Speaking of old-fashioned…" she segued, "A few of us have noticed you've taken an interest in archaeology lately."

Chekov nodded, now harboring a growing twinge of suspicion.

"Well, on shore leave a few weeks ago, I came across this…" she brought her other hand out from behind her back, "…and the first person I thought of was you. I couldn't resist."

Chekov blinked in astonishment at the object she held. It was older than dirt, thicker than his fist, and pleasingly dog-eared, just the way he liked them. Yes, _Bridges to the Past: A Study of Ancient Nvvorian Culture Through Recovered Artifacts and Other Findings,_ by Dr. K. Haslam, would be the perfect addition to the already overflowing bookshelves taking up one whole side of his quarters.

"Go ahead," Uhura encouraged. "It's yours."

As soon as his fingers touched the worn, musty binding, a familiar thrill swept through him. Naturally, reading anything and everything he could get his hands on was not only a favorite pastime, but an irresistible passion as well. There were thousands of texts available in the ship's database, and it was no secret that he'd already devoured about four hundred of them (give or take), but there was nothing quite like the weight of a real book in his hands. Something about the tangibility, the sturdy covers, the soft rasp of pages as he turned them, the mystery of where each had come from and how it had ended up in his possession.

And that aged, _papery_ smell.

You couldn't get that from a screen.

"Uhura, y-you didn't…you didn't hef to…" He trailed into grateful speechlessness.

"C'mon, you stop that." She waved him off. "Of course I did—oh!"

Chekov threw his arms around her. "Thank you! Th-thank you so much, I _love_ it!"

"Happy birthday, Pasha." She returned the hug generously after a second of mild surprise. "I know being the youngest crewman on the entire ship can't be easy, but you should never let that stop you. You're just as capable as the rest of us—probably more—but…but I just want to say that if you ever need help, you know right where to find me. Don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Uhura. It means a lot."

When they separated Chekov suddenly found one of the lieutenant's index fingers poking into his chest in feigned chiding.

"And one more thing…" She winked. "It's ok to call me 'Nyota' when we're off-duty."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

If the youngest crewmember of the _Enterprise_ was absent from the bridge, you were likely to spot him on the observation deck. The place had become a favorite haunt of his soon after their service under the newly promoted Captain Kirk commenced and it was not hard to guess why. Massive windows revealed the vastness of space, bathing the room and anyone in it in a gentle, heavenly glow. It was an oasis, a haven for those seeking peace and tranquility or simply craving a break from the ship's high-tech, efficient activity.

Many a romantic conversation had transpired under the endless dusting of stars, even a proposal or two, but Ensign Pavel Chekov never came looking for romance. He came to clear his head, to remember that the universe reached far beyond the navigation panel he stared at for hours every day. Exploring the beyond was, after all, the reason they were out here. The reason _he_ was out here.

This particular visit, however, was a little different. This time, though he sat beneath the twinkling canopy as usual, he hardly noticed it. Something else had his attention in the palm of its hands, or rather the words of its pages.

The archaic book his nose was buried in had been given to him as a birthday gift a couple of days prior, and this was the first free moment he'd had since then to crack it open and really soak it in. And as soon as he started, he became a willing captive of its world with no hope of rescue, oblivious to all else…

"Oh, hello!"

…Until an unfamiliar voice reached in, grabbed him by the ears and yanked him back to the present.

Startled, Chekov blinked up at a pair of eyes peering at him through horn-rimmed glasses set on a round, freckled face framed by auburn.

The short science officer shuffled apologetically. "Sorry, I…I can't help but notice the book you're reading. Haslam…he's one of my favorites."

Confused as he was by this abrupt interaction, it brought a smile to the ensign's face. It had never occurred to him that someone else aboard the ship, or anywhere else in the galaxy, for that matter, would be familiar with the book or remotely interested in its subject matter.

"Mind if I sit down?"

He'd never cleared a space so quickly.

"Thanks." She returned his smile, seeming taken aback by his swift accommodation.

"So, you…you hef read this book?" Chekov pressed eagerly.

"Yeah, several times. It was required reading at the Academy, but after the first time through, I could never stay away from it. Haslam just has this way of turning what could be a boring chapter, say on the dispersal of artifacts throughout layers of sediment, into an academic yet exciting…mind adventure…thing…" She trailed off, sounding a bit embarrassed by her unconventional description and began fiddling with a lock of hair. "That made no sense whatsoever, did it?"

He'd known her all of thirty seconds and was already reveling inwardly at the prospect of befriending someone weird and a little awkward. Someone kind of like him.

"No, no, I've been wondering how to phrase it in Standard and now I know, thanks to…er…"

"Briony. My name is Briony and I'm a xeno-archaeology specialist. What about you?"

"Chekov, Pavel Andrei—" He caught himself. It was a reflexive response, the result of having undergone several years of intensive command training. Like many other officers, there were times when drilled protocol came easier to him than breathing. "I mean…I'm Pavel. Just Pavel."

"Okay, then, 'Just Pavel'."

"Uh, no, zat is not what I—"

"Whoa, hang on, I know you!"

 _Aaand here we go again._

Every time it came up, which was more often than not, he was left wondering if he would ever escape the notorious "Russian Whiz-Kid" title. Being treated like a child was one thing, but being regarded as an underage robot by those who hadn't bothered to get to know him was getting exasperating. He cringed.

"You're _that_ guy…the…the, uh…" She snapped her fingers, as if doing so would produce the answer she was looking for faster.

"'Russian Whiz-Kid'?" Chekov muttered.

The young woman's eyebrows knit together. "What? No! I meant you're the guy who almost ran me over in the corridor a couple days ago."

Caught off-guard by the unexpected reply, Chekov began to babble. "Oh! Oh, I, uh…yes. Yes, zat was…zat was definitely me. I'm so sorry about zat, I was running wery late—"

"I noticed," she giggled. "Both the running and the late. But don't worry about it, it's all good. I imagine you've got enough to think about being on the bridge anyway."

"How did you know I was heading to ze…"

"Pft, are you kidding?"

Ohhh no. The fact that she hadn't heard the annoying nickname was nothing short of a miracle, but his unusual reputation in command was getting more and more difficult to dodge every day. He braced himself yet again.

"You don't have to be on the command crew to know how to get to the bridge, silly. It was pretty obvious that's where you were going."

Again, she'd stunned him with her less than typical response. Was this lady for real? Better yet, had he finally met a person he could talk to without getting his unintentional wunderkind label shoved in his face every other minute?

"I _have_ heard of you, though. Kind of impossible not to given your, uh…unique circumstances, Mister Braincase."

He just _had_ to get his hopes up.

"'Braincase'? Well, zat is a new one…" he grumbled.

"I transferred to the _Enterprise_ when she docked for shore leave several weeks ago," Briony continued, much to Chekov's surprise and relief. "Probably explains why we've just barely run into each other."

The word left his mouth before he could stop it. "Literally."

Briony laughed, a loud sort of snorty-barking sound that earned them a few irritated glances from fellow stargazers.

"Sorry," she said, ducking her head. "Sorry, everybody. I must've missed the 'no displays of amusement whatsoever' sign on the way in."

It was Chekov's turn to snort, which did little in the way of improving the moods of their comrades. Sure, hers wasn't the most attractive laugh he'd ever heard from a human being, but it was genuine and it was her own. Why should she have to apologize?

"Some people, I swear." Briony made an almost comical show of composing herself, then sighed. "Anyway, 'Just Pavel the Braincase'," she gave him a playful nudge as if she'd known him for years, "how did you end up on the observation deck reading about Nvvorian culture?"

"Well, I…I come here often, but usually I am looking at ze stars. _Real_ stars. Not graphics on a console. It's wery…"

"Comforting? Peaceful? Mind-blowingly vast and awe-inspiring?"

He gave a light chuckle. "All of ze above."

She returned with a vigorous nod. "Oh, no, I'm right there with you. There's nothing better than the real thing, right? I've gone through piles upon piles of computerized archaeological data and holograms, but you just can't beat holding an actual artifact, seeing it up close and personal with your own eyes."

Chekov couldn't suppress a thrill of utterly geeky happiness at this confirmation of common interests. He could get used to talking to Briony the xeno-archaeology specialist.

"Funny, isn't it?" she said. "We spend so much of our time zooming through the stars, yet hardly ever take a minute to appreciate how amazing they are. I guess that's what makes this place special to me. Don't get me wrong, the rest of the _Enterprise_ is incredible, it's just…I'm still getting used to it. Coming here gives me perspective, an anchor in a sea of change…" She faded off, reaching up to adjust the antique glasses. "Wow, I'm sorry, that was…I'll stop. You probably didn't need to hear any of that."

"No, no, don't stop!" Chekov said quickly. "Zat was wery poetic! I want to hear what else you hef to say."

She stared at him, a slight pinkish hue tinting her cheeks as one corner of her mouth twitched upward.

"Really?"

" _Da_ , really."

"All right, then," she went on, taking the book from him and running a couple fingers lovingly over the front cover before flipping through the pages, "but not until you tell me how you met up with Haslam in the first place. And how did you ever score a physical copy?! You barely see these anymore."

"It was a birthday gift." Starting to feel surprisingly relaxed and content in the presence of this newcomer, Chekov leaned back to watch the silhouettes of a couple crewmembers passing in front of the view.

"Aw, well, happy birthday, Just Pavel! Whoever picked it out certainly has good taste. How…how old are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

And she'd finally gotten around to the age thing. The tranquility of the previous moment evaporated.

"Um, I…I'm eighteen."

"Oh…" She paused to consider, nodding after coming to a conclusion. "I'd heard you were young, but I was thinking, like, twenty or twenty-one-ish."

It was inevitable, but unlike most other conversations where his youth always seemed to become the foremost topic, this was light and in passing. In fact, aside from simply wanting to learn more about him, she didn't appear to care about it at all. She was conversing with him like he was a colleague. An equal. This was a fairly rare occurrence outside of Chekov's relationships with the rest of the senior staff…and it felt _wonderful_.

"Hm, when I was your age, I was just another dumb cadet messing around at the Academy like everyone else, not sitting on an observation deck neck-deep in archaeological theory. Well, whatever warps your starship, I guess…" She blinked, looking confused at what had come out of her mouth. "That…sounded extremely weird, I'm so sorry. Sometimes things make a lot more sense inside my head than out loud."

"I like weird," Chekov replied, offering an encouraging smile.

Briony's face lit up. "You do?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, "not many people in my line of work share that sentiment. It's kind of sad."

"They must be wery boring people, then," said Chekov.

"A few of them are, yes, but I can already tell that you, Just Pavel, are definitely not boring. Not boring is good. 'Weird' has the potential to take you places, I guess you could say. It gets things done, makes you stand out. 'Boring' doesn't. Besides, unconventional weirdos are responsible for all the best theories, stories, inventions, philosophies, practices, and so on, aren't they? They're the ones who make history."

Her priorities were beginning to reveal themselves. She hadn't come aboard the _Enterprise_ in the interest of personal gain, but rather to embark on a quest with ample opportunities for knowledge and experience on the horizon. She was here for the ride, wherever it may take her.

Chekov tilted his head. "I hef never considered zat before. When I think about it, all ze weird people I hef ever met hef turned out to be some of ze most creative, brilliant, and brave friends I could ask for."

"Exactly." Briony nodded, then, without warning, nudged the chat into a slightly different path. "So...you're the one driving this thing, huh?"

Chekov snickered, never having heard it put quite like that before. "I…I don't 'drive' ze _Enterprise_ , no. I just tell her where to go. I'm a nawigator. What is it you do?"

"I basically live in the archives and archaeology lab, and when I'm not busy with research or collecting data, I'm preserving and cataloging artifacts. Not the most glamorous job, I know."

"I think it sounds wery interesting, to be honest."

Her expression turned skeptical. "Seriously?"

" _Da!_ Yes! Please, tell me more, I want to know everything."

She beamed. "Alrighty, Just Pavel, you got it."

The two fell effortlessly into deep and stimulating discussion. Chekov learned of her affinity for history and culture, which brought up the subject of the glasses. After explaining that they were more of a retro accessory than actual corrective eyewear, they detoured into a brief tangent about the meaning of the Standard term "old school". Soon enough, Chekov found himself relating how he'd found a home in Starfleet and expounding on his recent interest in archaeology.

An hour slipped by, then two. Shipmates came and went, sometimes giving the pair a sideways glance, but otherwise leaving them to themselves. Eventually the conversation steered toward the subject of dig sites and the recovery of artifacts Briony had participated in. She had more than a few entertaining stories and loads of fascinating facts and somehow, Chekov got the feeling that she'd been waiting a long time for someone to share them with. Someone other than a fellow xeno-archaeology expert, who was genuinely interested and could hold his own and maybe offer a few fresh perspectives in a discussion of this caliber. The archives, he guessed, were probably not the most social of places on the _Enterprise_. Then again, he couldn't know that for sure since he'd never been there.

"I've...never been to ze archives…" he blurted before he could stop himself.

"Whaaaaat?" The look Briony gave him was a mix of surprise and pity. "You've never been to the…? Okay, you're really missing out and that makes me sad. No one should ever be deprived of the opportunity to experience the bottomless pools of knowledge that are the archives. It's just…it's just unacceptable."

He blinked. "If I would hef known zat, I would hef—"

The science officer patted his shoulder. "Not to worry, Just Pavel. This is easily remedied. Why don't we meet here again sometime tomorrow?"

"Nineteen-hundred hours." Chekov replied a little too eagerly. "Zat is when I'm off-duty."

"Perfect! Nineteen-hundred hours it is, then. And I have to tell you, I've been dying for a change of pace and I'd love to give you a personal tour. Y'know, show you what we do, maybe take a look at some artifacts. We do have a few Nvvorian pieces in our collection. How does that sound?"

Chekov could think of nothing he'd like better.

…

When the newfound friends parted, the teen returned to his quarters feeling physically tired but mentally awake. This was nothing new considering that his mind was a ceaseless hurricane of perpetual motion, but his lengthy conversation with Briony had sent his head spinning in a few new directions.

In the long months since the unexpected _Narada_ incident and its aftermath, the _Enterprise_ had gradually fallen into a steady, almost monotonous rhythm. Every day it was wake up, report for duty, do the job, eat and sleep. Chekov hadn't realized it, (and it wasn't as if he was hoping for another disaster to pop up any time soon) but a new friend to talk to and a break in the monotony were exactly what he could use right now.

As soon as he entered his room, however, his immediate needs shifted to the forefront of his thoughts. Two whole hours of conversing enthusiastically in Standard had left him feeling a bit tongue-tied and thirsty, so he tossed the book onto a nearby table and headed in the direction of water. A mere three steps later, the dull thud of an object hitting the ground brought him swiveling back to find the book lying open on the floor, pages gently waving as if beckoning him to return.

Chekov obliged, coming over and stooping to pick it up…and then he froze with one outstretched hand hovering a few inches above it. The pages had parted at the middle and settled, revealing a folded sheet of lined paper stuck in the crease between them.

Previous endeavor now all but forgotten, Chekov snatched it up. He was always happening across scraps and notes and bookmarks hidden within the bodies of the various tomes he collected, and always thought it fascinating to see what they contained. In a way, it was like stealing the tiniest glimpse into the world of the previous owner and the history of the book itself. Sometimes they were blank, while on others he found to-do lists, cheesy love notes, the occasional reminder about meeting a family member or coworker for lunch, all tidbits of day-to-day life immune to the passage of time.

This paper, he soon realized as he unfolded it, was nothing of the sort. At the center of the otherwise completely blank page, scrawled in black ink and circled several times, was one bold word.

HELP

…

There was a slight spring in Briony's step, something that hadn't been present for the past few days. She was feeling a little more confident, lucky even, now that she'd found someone she could really talk to. Someone who seemed to understand her better in the first five minutes of their acquaintance than anybody in her own department after several weeks.

This was her first stint as a member of a science team aboard a Federation starship. Her coworkers in the archives and lab were mostly easy to get along and work with (there was an exception or two), but as of yet, she'd never felt completely settled or at home. Though she was just as knowledgeable and qualified as any of them, she was more accustomed to rigorous fieldwork than the sterile, streamlined research happening on the _Enterprise_ , which in turn gave her the impression that she didn't quite fit among her more seasoned comrades.

This didn't dampen Briony's pure love of the subject and she did her job every day not out of obligation to impress anyone, but to feed an insatiable appetite for knowledge. Even so, her efforts did not go unnoticed. She had grown to respect and greatly admire her superior xeno-archaeology specialist, who had taken the young woman under his wing soon after her arrival and become a mentor and role model. He was kind, dedicated, supportive, astoundingly well-versed in his profession, everything she hoped to be someday, although he didn't exactly fulfill the need for a friend or confidante. At the end of the day, he was still her superior and that was the limit of their relationship.

But what if things were changing? What if she'd finally singled out a kindred soul from the hundreds of people living and working on this vessel? She didn't act on impulse often, but her split-second decision a few hours before to get out and visit the observation deck this evening was a good one.

She smiled as she tapped the touchpad outside of her quarters and slipped in through the door. The room was small and nothing fancy, nothing like the private officer's quarters a few levels up, of course, but for now it was the closest thing to home.

Stepping over a scattering of her roommate's belongings, Briony plopped down on the bed, kicked off her boots and reached for her tablet. Sifting through messages was something of a nightly ritual. She used the time to wind down, catch up on news of family and friends, and reconnect—although distantly—with life outside of xeno-archaeology. She found it to be an effective method of keeping at least one foot firmly grounded no matter where in the galaxy she happened to be.

Tonight's session would be short. Only a handful of notes awaited her, one announcing the birth of a cousin's baby boy, another from her grandmother informing of her decision to rent a condo in Florida, several more from friends out on surveys or digs or serving on other starships. All familiar and typical…

Wait, no, _not_ all familiar and typical.

She was at that border in the inbox where the old messages ended and the new ones began. Sitting on top of the last-read communication from the day before was what appeared to be a memo. These were usually sent through a specific departmental network separate from personal mailing systems, so Briony assumed it to be a harmless glitch. Not uncommon.

Naturally, expecting a note about an upcoming department meeting or some other mundane work-related thing, she tapped it. What she got instead was a loud, high-pitched screeching sound accompanying a horrific image of a corpse lying face-down in smear of blood. Flashing violently over the picture in bright red were the words "THIS COULD BE YOU".

Shocked to the core, Briony shrieked, flinging the tablet across the room.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"…Pavel? Hellooo, earth to Ensign Chekov, come in Chekov…"

"Huh?" Chekov snapped back to reality as a hand waved in front of his face. When he focused, he found Uhura and Sulu staring at him quizzically from across the table.

Uhura put down her mug. "Are you feeling okay? You've been pretty quiet this morning."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you, space-case. Who else?"

Chekov swallowed. Truthfully, ever since coming across the mysterious note the night before, he'd been somewhat preoccupied. He must have found dozens of little scraps tucked into books before now, but never one pleading for help.

Strangely, the discovery bothered him just enough to keep him awake longer than he'd wanted with questions he didn't know how to answer. The most obvious were of who had written the note and why, which opened the gates and allowed every manner of confusing and frustrating theory to follow. How could he help this person? Why put the note in a book, more specifically a book on the subject of Nvvorian archaeology? And why him?

In the end, he concluded that he must be overthinking an odd coincidence and jumping to conclusions about nothing. Who was he kidding? Hardly anyone used paper anymore which meant the message was probably at least a century old. And without a sliver of context, what was he supposed to do about it, anyway? What a stupid thing to lose sleep over. Just a random word on an insignificant piece of paper, another one of those anomalies he occasionally stumbled upon in his endless quest for new information.

And yet…

He simply couldn't deny the feeling that something about it was off. Maybe it wasn't that random and insignificant? And should he tell someone else? Ask for help?

"I'm…I'm fine," he muttered into his own mug before attempting to drown the matter in a gulp of hot coffee. Unfortunately, in his effort to maintain normalcy, the mouthful was slightly bigger than he'd anticipated and he ended up nearly drowning himself instead.

"Whoa, take it easy," Sulu said as Chekov choked and coughed. "I don't know how you do things in Russia, but I think you're supposed to drink that, not inhale it."

"Pasha, are you sure you're…"

Hastily wiping his mouth on the back of a hand, Chekov stood before Uhura could finish, eager to vacate the area and avoid further scrutiny from his friends.

"I'm fine," he gasped again, faking a smile. "I'm just— _cough_ —fine. Well, hef to go. Ze _Enterprise_ won't drive herself, no?"

The other two shared a bemused look. "What?"

Of all the things he could have said, he had to spit out the one that made him sound the most stupid.

"I mean…I hef to go…to the bridge." Chekov gave a stiff wave, then spun around and made a beeline for the entrance of the recreation hall. "I will talk to you later!"

"Okay, but…"

"I'm fine," he called one last time. "Really."

Was he?

…

To Chekov's relief, Uhura and Sulu weren't on duty today until after his shift. Otherwise he might have spent the hours worrying about _them_ worrying about _him_ and wondering if he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Thankfully, as they usually tended to do, the precise and demanding requirements of his job took control of all brain function, clearing everything except coordinates and calculations aside, and before he knew it, he was free and on his way to the observation deck.

The ensign was lucky his feet knew where to take him since his head was lightyears away, wrapped up in the anticipation of talking to Briony again and her promised tour of the ship's archives. He miraculously arrived at their designated meeting place without any problems and spotted her on the same bench they had shared the night before, scribbling rapidly in a battered notebook with a pen.

Most in this century might be baffled by her choice of note-taking materials since tablets, holographic projections and voice-to-text commands had long been the norm, but this seemed so typical of a person who wore antique glasses for fun. It seemed so…so _Briony_ , and he'd known her less than a day.

Chekov came to a quiet stop beside her and cleared his throat.

"Hello…"

The young woman started, snapping the notebook shut with the pen between the pages and turning to face him. Her off-guard expression dissolved immediately into delight.

"Oh, there you are, Just Pavel!"

"Yes, here I am." Chekov shrugged. "'Just Pavel'. I…I can't help but notice ze notebook you are writing in. Mind if I sit down?"

"Oohhh, I see what you did there." She grinned, waggling a finger at him as she sidled over. "You're clever. Is everybody on the bridge as clever as you?"

"Yes," Chekov laughed a little as he took a seat beside her. "Yes, wery much so. Much more than me, actually."

Briony threw him a narrow-eyed glance of mock suspicion. "Somehow, I find that hard to believe. You seem like one of those unassuming types who can fly in under the scanners and get away with whatever you want. Or come out of nowhere and totally destroy everything in your path. Kapow!"

Was that supposed to be a compliment, or…

"And there I go again," she said after a pause, deflating at his confusion. "Sorry…"

"For what?"

"For getting away from myself again." She shook her hands by the sides of her head. "Stuff just…falls out of my brain sometimes."

Chekov smiled, momentarily distracted by a bizarre yet amusing image of streams of tiny letters, numbers, and objects spilling out of his friend's ears.

"It's a lot worse when I'm tired. I…didn't actually sleep very well last night."

"Hm. Neither did I."

"Perfect. Feeling under the weather is always more fun with someone to commiserate with, don't you think?

"Under ze…"

"It means you don't feel too great."

"Oh. I think I might hef known zat."

"Anyway, how about we head down to the dungeon?"

"Ze…dungeon?"

"Aagh," she grunted, scrunching her face and tucking a strand of hair behind an ear. "Archives. I meant the archives. Sorry, it's kind of an inside archaeologist joke…"

"Briony, are you all right? You seem sort of..."

"Distracted? Off-kilter?"

Those weren't quite the words he would have chosen, (especially the second, because what in the world was a "kilter"?) but they were close enough.

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, you seem…off your kilter."

"Sorry, sorry, I'm just… Never mind. It probably wouldn't make sense anyway, as usual."

"You know, maybe…maybe you should not apologize so much for ze things you say. Being yourself and saying what you mean is nothing to be sorry about. Even when you're feeling under ze weathers."

Blinking, the young woman studied him, eyes shining with a hint of hesitant curiosity.

"You know, you're awfully mature for someone your age. Are you sure you're an eighteen-year-old ensign and not some highly advanced being in disguise sent to impart wisdom to us lesser creatures?"

Chekov looked down at his hands, turning them over as if searching for physical evidence of higher being-ness.

"Not zat I know of. And I could ask ze same question to you."

"Nah, no need to ask." She waved him off. "I already know I'm not eighteen."

"Oh, good. I was wondering."

She laughed. "Come on, JP, let's go."

Before he could question the newest incarnation of his name, she seized his wrist and pulled him upright, towing him across the room and through the doorway.

"You're gonna _love_ this," she babbled in sudden, unabashed excitement. "I mean, I might be a little biased, but the archives really are the most interesting place on this ship, in my opinion. Where else do you get to study dead people all day?"

"Uh…sickbay?"

"What? Ew! Well, true, I guess, but I meant people that have been dead for, like, five hundred plus years. Anyway, you would not believe some of the pieces we have in there. It's like stepping into a mini alien museum. And wait till you see our database. It is _beyond_ wicked, I'm not even kidding!"

"Wicked?"

"Oh, right, it usually means 'evil, but it can also be slang for 'amazing', or 'seriously awesome'."

"Ayyy…" he groaned.

Was he _ever_ going to get his head around all the extras that tagged along with Standard? Sure, technical jargon and Starfleet talk weren't a problem, but just when he thought he'd figured out how to hold a casual conversation, he was knocked back a rung or two by a new word or phrase. And why did so many of said words or phrases have to sound the same but have completely different meanings? It didn't seem fair.

"Don't ask me why it works that way," Briony said, as if reading his mind, "because I have absolutely no idea. I'm not a linguist."

"Don't worry, I won't." This was more of an issue to bring up with Uhura, anyway, but the language lesson would have to wait a while.

Briony's enthusiasm was contagious, and though he wasn't a fan of being tugged across half the ship by someone he'd only met yesterday, he couldn't muster the heart to tell her that he was perfectly capable of walking (more like jogging, in this case) by himself. She was obviously thrilled at the opportunity to get to know a shipmate with common interests and perspectives and Chekov couldn't blame her. After all, he felt the same way.

Several levels later and around one last corner, Briony brought him to an abrupt halt before a pair of sliding glass doors. Finally dropping his arm, she beamed.

"Okay, are you ready?"

Was she kidding? Chekov was born ready.

"Yes," was all he said.

Briony trotted to the touchpad next to the entrance and gave it a tap.

"And now, may I present to you, Ensign Chekov… _the archives_."

The doors hissed apart as she stepped aside, waving her arms like a gameshow hostess presenting the grand prize.

And what a prize it was.

Essentially an extension of the curved, tubular hallways of the rest of the ship, the walls were checkered with blue-tinted compartments and went branching off in several directions like a web. At the center of these connecting corridors was a computer console where a couple other science officers studied and discussed the holographic image of an artifact rotating slowly above it.

Wide-eyed, Chekov stood frozen in place, overwhelmed by a swell of academic ecstasy. Why in the galaxy had he never come here until now? This place gave the observation deck a run for its money, and that was saying something.

Briony was suddenly beside him. "Pretty amazing, right?"

"No...no, it's not."

"It's not?" She sounded almost insulted.

"No, it's _unbelievable_."

"Oooh, nice save. For a second there I was afraid I was going to have to kick you out and ban you from ever coming back."

He gulped. "Wh-what?"

"Kidding, kidding." She took his shoulders, steering him toward an adjoining corridor. "Right this way, Thesaurus-For-Brains. There's somebody I want you to meet. I think you'll get along really well."

The busy science officers hardly flinched as the two passed by and hung a left. This hallway ended with a door that looked highly official and secure, as if it kept some priceless treasure or classified secret behind it. And in reality, Chekov supposed, it just might.

Briony entered a code into the keypad at its side. With a beep, the door slid open.

"Welcome to the lab. Step right in and make yourself at home."

The room was long and spacious with counters and workstations filling the length, all of which were buried under piles of brushes and tools, shards of pottery, pieces of bone, a rather horrifying alien skull with four hollow eye sockets and sharp fangs, and so on. Rows of shelves and cabinets lined the walls, likely housing who knew how much more archaeological paraphernalia.

It was chaotic, intriguing, disorganized, exhilarating…

It was _heaven_.

"Aha, there you are, my dear." The voice belonged to one of two lab coat-clad men standing at the farthest workstation. "We were wondering where you'd gotten off to."

The speaker was the older of the pair with greying hair and features suggesting a few too many brushes with native species over a long career of fieldwork. The man radiated a friendly but firm air which was amplified by his strong, thick build. He was the perfect blend of father-figure and retired hitman, someone who could dish out the wisdom while easily taking control of any situation.

The other one was tall and lean with shiny black hair, a pointy face, and, by the looks of it, a pointy attitude to match. Everything about him seemed to scream "holier than thou".

"Hello, Dr. Sylar," Briony replied brightly, tossing her notebook onto a countertop. Then after a half-hearted nod, "Hey, Schvaneveldt."

Schvaneveldt? Well, that sounded like all sorts of fun to pronounce. Just the thought made Chekov's tongue curl.

"Who's the new guy?" Schvaneveldt asked.

"Dr. Sylar, Swannie—"

"Don't call me that—"

"—allow me to introduce you to Ensign Pavel Chekov." She leaned toward them, pretending to hide a loud whisper behind a hand. "He's from the bridge."

Then, as if offering him for inspection, Briony nudged him forward. Momentarily lost for words after an internal attempt to sort the "v" sounds from the "w" sounds in the tall man's name, Chekov plastered on a smile, hoping it didn't appear too forced. The doctor seemed to buy it. Schvaneveldt, on the other hand, remained unimpressed.

"Oh, _now_ I know who he is," he sniffed as if Chekov weren't even in the room, "and where he works. It's not very often one of the hotshots from command descends from on high to pay us lowly worker bees a visit. What brings you all the way down here, Wonder-Whiz, or whatever they call you?"

 _And there's another one for the list,_ Chekov thought. Though the variations of the label grew ever more tiring, Chekov had to admit people were getting creative. There were only so many synonyms for "prodigy" and phrases to substitute for "that Russian kid". At least the redundancy issues meant it would eventually die out.

"It's Pavel," he replied.

" _Just_ Pavel," added Briony. "And _I_ brought him down here."

"Oh, goody." Schvaneveldt smirked maliciously. "'Pavel', huh? So, if I ring a bell, does that mean you'll come running from the other room expecting lunch?"

"Swannie!"

"You must be thinking of 'Pavlov', not 'Pavel'," Chekov replied. "And I'm sorry, but I am not a dog, if zat's what you are implying. Pavlov was ze physiologist who discovered and researched ze psychological concept of 'classical conditioning'. He conducted experiments introducing ze ringing of a bell as a neutral stimulus whenever ze dogs were given food in order to study their responses. He wasn't ze subject of ze experiments himself. We are _both_ Russian, though, so good guess."

"Ohohooo, ouch," Briony said under her breath in the stunned pause that followed.

"Huh," snorted the taller man, "aren't you just the perfect little Russian know-it-all—"

"I could report you for that," Briony snapped. "You _know_ I could."

"Of course you could…but you _won't_. We all know you don't even have the guts to report somebody for loitering—"

"That's enough, you two," Dr. Sylar intervened before the argument could heat up.

Scowling, Schvaneveldt mumbled something inaudible but undoubtedly offensive and went back to his work.

 _"Don't listen to him,"_ said Dr. Sylar, wisely guiding them away from the topic of names. _"So, we finally get to meet one of the captain's finest. How exciting!"_

 _"Er, well, no, not really the finest, I'm just a navi—"_ Chekov stopped short, fully comprehending the manner in which Dr. Sylar had addressed him. A wide grin spread across the ensign's face. _"You speak Russian!"_

Dr. Sylar returned the boy's smile with one of his own, sidestepping the work station to grip his hand.

 _"That I do, Ensign. That I do."_

"No idea what you're saying right now," Briony whispered, giving Chekov another nudge, "but I knew you two would hit it off."

Any chance to speak in his native tongue felt akin to downing a cold glass of water after an uphill run on a blistering summer day. Once he got going, it was difficult to stop, however, Sylar didn't seem bothered and let Chekov chatter away about his newfound archaeological interests, listening patiently to his ideas and theories and answering questions as they arose.

"Um, not to be _that_ person," Briony cut in hesitantly after a while, raising an index finger, "but some of us aren't as gifted in the language department."

Schvaneveldt contributed a snort, otherwise remaining tenaciously focused on the cracked and dusty clay bowl he was brushing.

"Yes, yes, sorry, my dear." Sylar tapped Briony's shoulder, then turned back to Chekov. "We'll have to continue our conversation in Russian at another time. Although, I must say your Standard is quite remarkable."

Chekov beamed. "Thank you. I'm still learning, but I hef worked wery hard to…"

Schvaneveldt choked on an actual laugh this time.

 _Stupid w's and v's…_

"Shut up, Swannie," snapped Briony.

"I told you not to call me that!"

"Didn't you have some important numbers from that dig on Gorvis-XI you needed to run through the computer?" Dr. Sylar asked his tall colleague as Briony crossed her arms and glared for emphasis.

Without much more than an annoyed huff, Schvaneveldt excused himself and made for the entrance.

"I apologize," Sylar continued once he was gone, "Schvaneveldt isn't the most…charming person to work with."

"I noticed," Chekov said.

"In any case, let's move on, shall we?"

"Yes, please," muttered Briony.

"How old are you, Ensign, if I may ask? Purely out of curiosity, that is."

Feeling his face flush a bit, Chekov cleared his throat and shuffled.

"Um, eight…eighteen. I turned eighteen a few days ago."

Sylar seemed both surprised and impressed. "Oh, you _are_ quite young, then, aren't you? How interesting. Well, I certainly look forward to learning more about you in the future, Mister Chekov."

"Speaking of age," Briony said, taking the teen by the elbow like she was preparing for a stroll through the park, "why don't I show you around before we get any older?"


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"That…was… _incredible_!" Briony burst out once she and Chekov made it to the hallway. "You totally _owned_ Swannie back there! See? What did I tell you? Right under the scanners. Kapow!"

Chekov's face reddened. "I was just pointing out a fact."

"Yeah, but what a way to deliver. That might actually have been the greatest thing I've seen since that time Jared Meyers dissolved most of a countertop during chemistry class back in back in high school, and that was pretty epic, I won't lie. Nobody's _ever_ shut Swannie down like that before."

"Wonderful. An angry science officer with a grudge against me is exactly what I need."

"Aw, I wouldn't worry too much about Swannie," Briony continued. "He's not as amazing as he thinks he is and it's about time somebody put him in his place. I should bring you to the archives more often."

"But I wasn't trying to—"

"I know you weren't," she interjected, stopping by one of the blue-tinted compartments in the wall, "but you have no idea how satisfying that was. You can at least give me a few seconds to gloat, can't you?"

Chekov smiled. "Okay, fine. Go ahead."

"Yay!" She paused, grinning up at the ceiling in an exaggerated stupor or sheer happiness, then released a contented sigh. "Ahh, thanks, that really hit the spot. All right, tour time. We'll start right here."

…

Briony's tour proved to be both informative and entertaining. She had a story for almost everything she pointed out and related each in the most animated way possible. She introduced Chekov to a few coworkers, dragged him around by the arm some more as they moved from one point of interest to the next, practically had to pry him away from the database, and they ended up back in the lab.

This was what Chekov had been anticipating most. The part where he might actually get to _see_ an artifact. A real one uncovered by real experts on a real dig. He shivered eagerly as his guide cleared a space on a workstation, then filled it again with the small container she produced from beneath it.

Unable to curb his curiosity, Chekov moved in for a closer look while Briony entered a code into the touchscreen on the crate's side. With a soft hiss, the lid popped open.

"Ze box is pressurized," he said, "to aid in ze preserwation of ze artifacts?"

"Exactly. And these particular crates generate an inner suspension forcefield to prevent damage to the artifacts during transport, which makes our jobs a lot easier, let me tell you. Go ahead and take a peek."

Chekov peered over the lip of the container and immediately recognized the faint electric glimmer. Hovering within its protective confines was a chunk of weathered stone. He blinked, knowing that artifacts would naturally vary in an infinite number of ways…but this...?

"What do you think?" Briony prompted.

"I think…I think you found a wery nice piece of rock." He offered an apologetic shrug. "You _did_ say you are an archaeologist, not a geologist, no? Or did I lose zat somewhere in translation?"

She laughed. "As cliché as it is, you're not the first person to ask and you won't be the last. Here, let me prove to you that this isn't just any old 'rock'."

In a practiced, fluid movement, Briony reached inside the crate and lifted out the stone, causing a minor flickering disturbance in the otherwise tranquil forcefield. After placing it on the countertop, she pulled over a large, illuminated magnifying glass and switched it on.

As soon as it was awash in cool, artificial light, what had initially appeared to be random scratches across the artifact's surface revealed themselves to be neat, delicate inscriptions. It was impossible to know what language they were written in, but it was clear that a sentient, intelligent individual was responsible for putting them there.

Briony beamed. "I personally excavated this little guy on Ondridia-5 a week before I transferred to the _Enterprise_."

"It's beautiful," Chekov said in admiration. "But…if it's not a rock, what is it?"

"So far, all we've been able to determine based on similar findings from this era of the planet's history is that it might be part of a sacred text used in ceremonies to worship a sun deity. Emphasis on the 'might'. There's still a lot of research ahead to confirm this, but that's the fun…" she faded off, tilting her head. "Okay, you look like I just handed you the lost city of Atlantis on silver platter."

"How do you _do_ zat?"

"Do what?"

"How do you get all…" Chekov waved a hand at the artifact, "all of _zat_ by looking at a rock?"

Briony flashed a sly smile. "How do you tell the difference between stars and planets by looking at a chart?"

Chekov considered this a moment, then nodded knowingly. "Hm. Tooshy."

She squinted at him. "Sorry, what...did you just say?"

 _Oh, no, not again._

Chekov's stomach clenched with a horrible feeling of impending embarrassment.

"I…I said zat word for when ze other person makes a good point in a debate…didn't I?"

Briony lifted an eyebrow, then appeared to comprehend.

"Wait, you mean 'touché'!"

"Yeah, zat…" Chekov laughed nervously, gaze dropping to his feet. "Too-shay. Zat's what I meant. What…what did I actually say?"

"Ahaha, nothing close to 'good point', that's for sure."

"Ayyy-yi-yi," Chekov groaned with a facepalm.

The xeno-archaeologist responded with her signature giggle and placed a finger under his chin, lifting his head up again.

"Don't worry, you'll figure out the subtle, maddening mysteries of Standard, I know it. Just need a little more practice, that's all. Besides, we don't judge here because we're xeno-archaeology, not linguistics. I think they're one level up and not nearly as awesome as us."

That brought a reluctant smile to one corner of Chekov's mouth.

"So," Briony pivoted, scooping the artifact off the countertop and extending it toward him, "do you want to hold it?"

"Er…sure, I guess." Swallowing, Chekov held out his hands and winced as the weight of the stone fell into them. At first, he was certain the ancient relic would crumble if he so much as breathed on it, but curiosity won out and his doubts gradually melted away until he was turning it over to study it from every angle.

"Don't drop it!"

"Aagh!" Instinctively, Chekov's fingers clamped around the piece and he clutched it to his chest like a mother would a flailing infant. "Don't _do_ zat!"

"Oh, relax," Briony said with a gleeful snicker. "I was teasing…sort of. Really, though, you probably couldn't make a dent in that thing if you threw it against a wall. I think the wall might come off worse, actually."

"You're probably right…"

The two turned to find Dr. Sylar standing in the doorway.

"…but for the sake of the wall, I suggest you avoid testing that theory. Now, if you don't mind putting your tour on hold for a moment, Briony, I need a second opinion on those spearheads from the Regelo expedition."

"Of course, Dr. Sylar." She started after him, then paused just shy of the door. "Feel free to wander," she called back to Chekov, "just don't touch anything. I'll be back in a couple minutes. You can stay out of trouble for that long, right?"

With a friendly wink, Briony exited, leaving Chekov to answer the question for himself.

Still gripping the artifact like it might fling itself to the ground, he turned a slow circle, surveying the room and everything in it with hesitant curiosity. Finally deciding that it might be safer to explore without a priceless piece of some planet's history in his hands, he held the stone over the crate and let it sink safely into its former state of suspension. He was no stranger to the physics of forcefields, but there was something satisfying, almost hypnotic in watching a hunk of solid rock float and sway weightlessly in a pool of shimmering energy.

Chekov was considering giving it a poke and treating himself to a repeat performance when something across the countertop caught his attention.

Briony's notebook.

It lay wide open, pen resting in the crease exactly as it had landed earlier. Circling the workstation, he noted the black ink, her confident handwriting, one partially torn page…

 _Human…_

Chekov's heart skipped. Was that…a voice?

 _Young Human. Do you hear us?_

No, the faint, chilling whisper was more a feeling than a sound. The feeling of a thousand microscopic shards of shattered ice piercing his mind, running down his spine and spreading through his every nerve. It enveloped him like a net, rendered him incapable of movement, of drawing breath, even of thought for several tense moments.

His own voice, when he remembered how to use it, was thin and frightened.

"Who's th-there?"

No answer. Silence. Only the _whoosh-whoosh-whoosh_ of his blood pulsing in his ears. Could he be dreaming?

 _Pavel Andreivich Chekov._

It was real. Something was _talking_ to him, trying to get his attention. And it was coming from right behind him.

 _Find us. Help us._

Without thinking, Chekov whirled and attacked the opposite countertop, rummaging through a layer of clutter as fast as he could. What he discovered underneath was rather curious.

It was a small metallic sphere. Perfectly smooth and round except for an odd interlocking design at the very top unlike any Chekov had ever encountered, it was just the right size to fit in the palm of a hand.

His hand.

Spellbound, the ensign gingerly ran his fingertips over the raised design, taking in its complexity and mentally dissecting it, reorganizing the pieces, putting them back together to estimate how they might fit, wondering why it was there to begin with. There were no other evident lines or hinges on the sphere's surface to suggest that it could open. And if, by some miracle, it could, what would he find inside? Whatever the lock was designed to protect appeared to be no light matter.

Magnetic interest overwhelmed him, drawing him toward that brink where innocent speculation takes a deadly plunge into a river of serious consequences. He knew perfectly well to keep his distance from this ledge, he knew that he shouldn't test it…he knew…

All at once, the artifact was in his hand. He held it aloft, searching for better lighting under which to proceed with his examination.

"What—"

The rest of the sentence would never come to be. A searing arc of electricity exploded from the sphere and hit him squarely in the forehead while another traveled through his arm. For a split second, the powerful bolt gripped him in a blast of white heat, rendering every muscle in his body rigid with shock. Then, as fast as it had happened, it was over.

Chekov dropped to the ground.

…

"Side-by-side, the serpent carvings on this one appear to be slightly different from the rest, don't you think?"

A couple rooms down from their lab, Dr. Sylar and Briony hovered over a row of ancient Regeloan spearheads spread across an examination table.

"They do look a little off," Briony replied, bending in for a closer look at the single spearhead in question. "Could be from that other settlement farther up in the hills. I say we run a second scan and calibrate for copper content."

"Good call."

The older xeno-archaeologist carefully picked up the relic and placed it in the clear plate beneath a tube-like piece of scanning equipment.

"This shouldn't take long." He tapped the calculations into the instrument's computer, then turned back to face her, looking as if he were about to comment on the weather. "So, our new ensign friend seems nice enough."

"Oh, he is. He's funny and sweet and everything, but I think there's more to him than most give him credit for. And not simply because he has an IQ higher than all of earth's population combined—although I bet that helps."

"You barely know him."

"See, that's the thing. He really seemed to _get_ me, right from the start. And I'm not the easiest person to understand. You can trust me on this one, I live inside my head all day."

"I would be a little concerned if you didn't, my dear."

"He's kind of a dork, I'm kind of a dork, we speak the same language, boom. Instant connection. But he's got…he's got some substance to match the brains."

Now armed with a tiny brush, Dr. Sylar removed a lingering speck of dirt from another spearhead beneath a magnifier.

"He would have to if he's sitting on the bridge with the captain. That's not a job for just anyone. Anyway, how did you two meet again?"

"Observation deck. You wouldn't believe it, but he was reading Haslam's studies of Nvvorian culture…for _fun_."

"Ah, I see." Sylar's words contained a touch of amused astonishment. "That's certainly not something you find in the hands of an average eighteen-year-old. But, as they always say, great minds do tend to think alike."

"Ha," laughed Briony dryly, "right. When I said there was a 'connection', I was referring to personality, not brainpower. We're not even in the same universe in that respect. He's a child-prodigy, for crying out loud."

"Yes, he made that impeccably clear in that informative and—I have to say—entertaining exchange with Schvaneveldt earlier."

The scanner beeped, prompting Dr. Sylar to retrieve the specimen.

"'Entertaining'? That wasn't entertaining, that was pure brilliance. I mean, he wasn't even _trying_ and he punched a massive hole in Swannie's bloated ego."

"That he did." Dr. Sylar chuckled with a shake of his head, setting the tray down on the examination table. "The boy knows how to take care of himself. I imagine constantly being the youngest in a world of adults would bring that out in an individual."

"Personally, I don't know what would be more embarrassing," Briony chattered on, "not knowing what classical conditioning is or having it explained to me in simple terms by a teenager." She paused, briefly lost in thought. "Wow, I don't think I've actually met a certified genius before, let alone made friends with one."

"This should be a very interesting experience for you, then. At any rate, I'm glad to see you're meeting new…"

A prolonged and violent flickering in the room's lighting stalled the conversation.

"Was...was that normal?" asked Briony. Largely unaccustomed to the workings of large starships, it was sometimes difficult to tell what needed to be worried about and what was simply part of basic daily functions.

"No..."

"Um…good or bad?"

"Computer," Dr. Sylar left the question unanswered, addressing the ship's system instead, "locate and identify the source of any recent power surges within the archives."

They waited.

 _Power surge detected in archival lab number three,_ the sleek digital voice replied. _Source unknown._

"Lab three—" Briony started, throwing her mentor a worried look.

Sylar mirrored the expression a split second before darting for the entrance. The young woman was quick to follow and the two of them raced down the hallway. Briony reached lab three's door first, pounded the code into the touchpad, and squeezed through before the door could even open all the way.

The place was…empty? This couldn't be right…

"Hello?" she called as her colleague moved past her to investigate. "Chekov? Are you still in here or did we scare—"

Dr. Sylar's gasp sent her running across the room to join him between the two counters where they had last seen the boy. He was still there…only sprawled on the floor, eyes partially open and glazed, one hand clutching a smoking metallic sphere.

"Oh, no," choked Briony, jerking backwards in horror, "he's…is he—t-tell me this isn't happening!"

"Electrocuted," Dr. Sylar said tersely, pushing two fingers into the ensign's neck. "Not breathing—"

At those words, Briony felt her own breath catch as her throat closed over a wave of nausea. Her pulse gained speed, lungs throbbing in the early stages of hyperventilation.

" _W-what_?!"

"Call medical!"

Sick and nearly sobbing, she stayed where she was, a statue of shock and disbelief. Things like this were only supposed to happen to other people, to command and security officers fully trained and equipped to handle such dire situations, not to a xeno-archaeologist.

"I—he's _d-dead_!" she cried. "How is he dead, he was standing here three minutes—I can't—I don't—"

"Briony!" Sylar barked at the panicking girl, scrambling to his feet to grip her shoulders. "Briony, _listen_ to me! He's not dead, but if we don't get a team down here right now, he _will_ be!"


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The very first time he looked up into a clear night sky as a small child, he wasn't afraid. He saw depth and darkness, but there was also beauty and mystery. The sky was where he belonged and he knew this because of the stars. They spoke to his tender mind in maps and whispered riddles, hinting of untold wonder with every flicker. There was nothing he wanted more than to follow them and find out for himself what lay beyond. Though they seemed so distant, he would find a way to reach them.

He carried this fierce need to unravel the secrets of the constellations throughout his youth, devouring every bit of information he came across. He discovered their patterns, the way their weights, movements, and lifespans affected the bodies around them. He learned not only of their physical power, but the hypnotic sway their mysteries and promises held over the minds of creatures in every corner of the universe. They were studied, even worshiped by some, but to him, they were his guardians, his fiery beacons, his endless source of inspiration and excitement. He was convinced that as long as he could see them, he would never fail...

Something was wrong. It was too dark. No stars, no maps. All black. Nothing to guide him, nowhere to go. No matter where he looked, there was only an infinite void he knew he must escape before it swallowed him whole. This was his worst fear and it was closing in quickly on every side, shrinking around him like a vacuum. He struggled, pushing back with terror-fueled energy, but despite his efforts, he realized he couldn't climb out alone. He began to sink rapidly. Crushing despair filled in the remaining gaps, dragging him downward. He realized then that all was lost and no one could hear his pleas, so he stopped.

But instead of plunging into black silence as he'd expected, a calm, firm voice, touched him briefly, injecting into his nerves a particle of light.

"…ver here Bones, I think he's wak…"

 _I know this voice..._

The particle grew and multiplied, spreading warmth and life through his being. Immediately heartened, he grasped for this faint glint of hope, clinging to it with everything he had and straining for more.

"About time. The kid's been out a whole day."

Another voice, another lifeline. He snatched it too and felt his fear ebb a little more as the two weaved themselves together into a strong lifeline.

"Chekov?" said the first one. "Can you hear me?"

"Jim, he took an electric shock to the _head_ , for crying out loud. Give him a minute or two."

 _Jim…electric shock…Chekov…wait…"Chekov" is_ my _name…_

"C'mon, Pavel, you can beat this," the first voice encouraged. "We need you. The bridge just isn't the same without you at the helm."

 _Bridge? What is this guy talking…oh,_ that _bridge! What's that line I say whenever I hear that voice on the bridge…? Something like..._

"K…Keptin on…ze b-bridge…" The words were thick and sluggish, almost impossible to get out.

"That's it, that's it. How about name, rank and identification number? Can you give me those?"

His brain crawled into autopilot.

"Name, Chekov, Pavel…Andreievich. Rank…"

Chekov's eyelids slid apart and the swimming blur of light, shapes and colors gradually solidified into the hovering faces of friends he knew would never let him plummet back into the starless night. He was safe now.

The boy smiled weakly up at Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy.

"...Keptin?"

"Close enough." The captain smiled back. "How are you feeling?"

It was an obvious question, so Chekov gave the obvious answer.

"Everything…everything hurts, sir."

"Good." Dr. McCoy frowned at the readouts on the screen mounted beside the biobed. "Means you're alive."

"Word has it you picked a fight with a faulty electrical conduit," said Kirk.

Chekov swallowed, not sure if telling them what had actually happened would make things better or worse. Either way, it would be plenty embarrassing to admit he'd ended up here because he couldn't resist touching a piece of possibly-sentient metal.

"Yeah…" he mumbled. "S-something like zat."

"Nearly lost it, too," added the doctor bluntly. "We had some trouble convincing your heart to start again. For a while there, it was looking like we'd be picking up a new navigator at our next stop."

"They would've had some pretty big boots to fill." Captain Kirk grasped the young man's shoulder. "We're glad you decided to stick with us."

"So am I, sir…" Chekov began as the medbay doors swooshed open to admit several more individuals.

With a gasp, Uhura detached herself from Spock and ran toward the bed, eyes brightening with every step.

"Pasha!" she cried, taking Chekov's hand and squeezing it. "Pasha, you're awake! I knew you'd pull through."

Sulu and Spock stopped beside her, making Chekov feel a bit like a one-man freak show with them all gathered around him. At the same time, the wall of friends was comforting.

"Mister Chekov," said Spock, "we are all pleased to discover that you have survived and will undoubtedly make a full recovery. It is most fortunate."

It was the closest to a "glad you're ok, get well soon" as Spock was ever going to get, so Chekov took it for what it was.

"Thank you, Comman—"

"Oy, laddie!" came a burst of Scottish brogue from the entrance. The group parted as the Chief Engineer bore down on the teen, who cringed. "Yeh righ' near gave me the scare o'my life, wee man! What were yeh doin', messin' aboot with that much current?! Any more and yeh would've popped like a kernel o'corn!" He paused, surprising everyone with a sudden grin. "And yer a mite tougher than yeh let on."

"I helped, if that counts for anything," McCoy grumbled.

Uhura laughed, ruffling the ensign's hair. "Nice hairdo, by the way."

Confused, Chekov reached up and discovered that thanks to the shock, his curls had been blown into a mess of frizz.

"Ayy, wonderful," he sighed. "I feel like a sheep."

"Hm, kinda look like one, too," Sulu put in with a chuckle.

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "Ensign Chekov in no way resembles a sheep, nor does his hair. I do not understand..."

"It's a joke, Spock," Uhura muttered aside to him. "I'll explain later."

"Don't waste your breath," said Dr. McCoy. "Everyone knows it's not funny if you have to explain it. Just be glad it was your hair that exploded and not your brain, kid."

"Aye," agreed Scotty, "hair yeh can fix...most of the time. Brains? Not so much."

"C'mon, Pav," Sulu chimed in. "I think 'poof' might be a good look on you."

"Right?" Kirk clapped the pilot on the back. "Give it a day and it'll be a ship-wide rage."

"Oh, for the love of all that is still sane aboard this ship," muttered McCoy, grinding a knuckle into his forehead, "let's hope not."

Personally, Chekov sided with the doctor.

…

Eventually, the others were more or less kicked out of medbay, leaving Chekov at the mercy of the Chief Medical Officer. Knowing better than to even entertain the notion of asking when he could leave, Chekov submitted himself to a full examination and further testing to make sure all parts, physical and mental, were present and accounted for, and that no lasting damage had been done to either. When McCoy finally seemed satisfied with the results, the young officer was declared fit for discharge, but sentenced to a period of off-duty rest.

"I'd better not see you _anywhere_ _near_ the bridge for the next forty-eight hours, understood?" He offered Chekov a hand, hauling the boy upright as soon as it was accepted.

"Understood."

"Good. Now, if you start to feel anything abnormal—sick, dizzy, sudden increase in pain—come straight back and we'll look you over again. In the meantime," he aimed a scolding finger at him, "you see any exposed wiring, you keep your hands to yourself. Remember, you're a navigator, not an electrician."

Wise words, Chekov thought guiltily. If he'd simply left things alone in the first place, he might be having a normal day doing his normal job, not sitting half-roasted on a biobed.

"Yes, sir," he said.

That was that. In his typical terse fashion, Dr. McCoy ended the checkup by clearing the screen next to the bed and handing over the ensign's shirt. Feeling sore and dazed but overall just happy to be alive, Chekov pulled it on and headed out of medbay. The next stop, as per the doctor's request, would be his quarters.

Though he'd apparently been unconscious for over twelve hours and had initially balked at the idea of being cooped up with nothing to do for the next forty-eight, he craved a good, solid sleep. Maybe exhaustion was the human body's natural response to miraculously surviving near-death experiences? Or perhaps it was just an inward desire to escape on his own terms for a while? Whatever the case, he was ready for it.

With that in mind and not much else, he turned the next corner, expecting to meander down the corridor to the lift. Instead, he ran right into someone coming the opposite way.

"AAGH!" He immediately doubled over in pain, eyes scrunching shut as he spluttered a colorful Russian phrase through gritted teeth. It helped.

"Oh, my g—I'm so sorry, Chekov!" said a familiar voice. "I didn't see—I was just on my way to—"

Still cradling his middle, he opened first one watering eye, then the other to a slightly blurry image of a very concerned Briony.

"It's…it's okay," he lied, trying to save at least a fraction of his remaining dignity. "Doesn't hurt…wery much…"

"No, no, I should've been watching where I was going, but I was thinking and…here, let me help you." She pulled his arm over her shoulders. "Where were you headed?"

"Quarters," he grunted, wishing more than ever that he'd left that stupid sphere where it was.

"You really had me worried," Briony continued, voice tight. "What part of 'don't touch anything' didn't you understand? I mean, I _was_ kind of joking, but seriously…? I leave you alone in the lab for _one minute_ …"

"How was I supposed to know one of your artifacts would zap me?"

"Good point," she said after a pause. "When I said 'don't touch', I meant it as in 'don't get your fingerprints all over this stuff we're working on cleaning and preserving'. I swear, none of us knew there was anything in our inventory with lethal potential."

"Heh, now you do. You're welcome."

Chekov allowed his friend to walk him down the hallway. As much as he hated to admit it, he appreciated the assistance.

"There's proper protocol for those kinds of artifacts, of course, but the ones we have in the archives aren't supposed to be so…violent." She stopped to call the lift, guiding him inside when the doors opened. "In fact, they're not supposed to do anything...especially that sphere, come to think of it. As far as I know, that's been a cold case for months now—sort of got buried underneath everything else, I guess—so I wouldn't be surprised if you were the first person to touch it in as long."

They were silent a moment, the lift's mechanized hum providing a background for their thoughts.

"Really, though," Briony continued quietly. "I'm so glad you're alright. When Dr. Sylar and I found you on the floor not breathing, I was…I was terrified out of my mind. I panicked and didn't help very much at all. I don't handle surprises very well and if Dr. Sylar hadn't taken charge…" She drifted, eyebrows knitting together. "Are you always this preoccupied during conversations with other people?"

At the mention of 'help', a couple of the many dozens of gears inside Chekov's head clicked into place. The word flickered in his memory, provoking a flash of thought and a sharp gasp.

 _HELP_

The notebook, the bold handwriting in black ink, _the torn page..._

It was Briony. _She_ was the one who'd written the note. This happy, nerdy, chatterbox friend he was just getting to know was in trouble. How had he been so stupid not to have realized? She must have slipped the paper into his book at some point during their conversation two nights before, but why?

"Help," he said it aloud.

"That's what I'm trying to do..."

"No, _'help'_. You wrote zat note!"

Briony's eyes grew round and the color drained from beneath her freckles. Without offering any kind of explanation, she let go of him and reached for a side button, bringing the lift to a halt.

"You wrote it, didn't you?" Chekov pressed again after a lengthy absence of sound or movement.

She nodded, swallowing.

"And put it inside my book?"

Another nod, this time while chewing a lip, abnormal behavior for someone as bright and open as Briony. That worried Chekov even more.

He took her by the shoulders and looked her squarely in the eyes.

"What's going on?"

Her gaze dropped to her feet.

"It's okay, you can tell me." He hoped he sounded at least somewhat encouraging and less like the confused-teenager-with-a-pounding-headache he actually was. "Whatever it is, I'll…I'll try to help."

She took a deep, preparatory breath before blinking up again.

"For my safety and yours, you _can't_ breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you to anyone else aboard this ship. You just can't. This stays between you and me, okay?"

Slightly taken aback by the urgency of the request, Chekov faltered. "I...of course, but—"

"Promise me."

He hesitated. This had all the classic makings of a huge mess he wasn't sure he wanted to jump into. For all he knew, by agreeing to take part, he could be throwing himself into deep waters. Or worse, if it really was as bad as Briony made it sound, he could be throwing himself into his own grave. Despite the multiple red-alerts going off in his brain, he could see that she was already in too far over her head and in no position to get herself out. She needed the support of an ally.

"I…I promise." Though saying it out loud felt disturbingly like signing away his soul, he noted the immediate relief in Briony's expression.

"Thank you, Chekov," she breathed. "Thank you."

"Zat's...why I'm here. To help, no?" The cool, collected tone was a complete sham. What he really wanted to do was spin around, open the doors, hightail it out of the lift no matter what level they were on, and find somebody else to handle the issue.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't do that to her. Ensign Pavel Andreivich Chekov was an officer of Starfleet, and as such, was bound to his duty to serve and protect, even if it was a single person facing a difficult situation. Turning his back on this young woman, on his newfound _friend_ , would go against everything the Federation—not to mention he—stood for.

"But I can't do anything until I know what's wrong," he said finally.

Nodding, Briony clasped her hands together. "I think...I think someone's stealing from the archives."

It wasn't the answer Chekov had been expecting, and in all honesty, it was something of a relief. A simple matter of theft could be easily solved and put aside, allowing the two of them to resume cultivating their budding relationship and life in general. All he had to do was go through the proper avenues, which, as a member of command, wouldn't be too difficult.

He reached for the small communications panel on the wall. "We should notify secur—"

"No!" Briony smacked his hand away. "I mean…I'm so sorry. It's a little more complicated than just calling security, because…because…"

"Because what?"

"Because I've been receiving anonymous threats. They're on to me…whoever 'they' are. They're trying to intimidate me and pin me down. It's working."

So much for 'easily solved'.

After a moment, Chekov again reached for the controls, this time making it obvious that he was only going to start the lift.

"If this is true, we can't stay here."

"Where can we go, then?"

"We can talk in my quarters, if zat is okay with you."

Briony hesitated, thinking it over before agreeing with a slight nod.

As they came to their level and the doors opened, Chekov took the lead into the empty officers' quarters corridor. All the way down, he couldn't help but inwardly kick himself for allowing himself to get his hopes up for an easy out. Who was he kidding? This was the _Enterprise_. From his first day on the bridge, he'd learned quickly that life aboard a Federation starship, especially this one, was rarely normal or calm. If it was, it could be taken as a sign that things were about to get interesting and most likely dangerous, although, he wasn't usually the one dealing with the Fiasco of the Day.

"Computer," he said as they entered his room, "actiwate lights."

The computer answered with a shrill beep. _Command not understood. Please try again._

Chekov groaned. A sassy computer was the last thing he wanted on top of the headache he already had.

"Computer, acti- _wvvate_ lights."

 _Command not under—_

With a frustrated grunt, he swiveled to the manual control panel by the door and punched the button himself. Why did he even bother with voice-command anymore?

"Wow," said Briony as the room was illuminated.

"It heppens all ze time—"

"No, I meant…wow." She indicated the overstuffed bookshelves sagging against the far wall.

"Oh, er…yeah," he rubbed the back of his neck. "Eheh, I…might hef a little bit of an obsession."

"A _little_? Even _I_ don't own that many printed books, and I'm an archaeologist."

Chekov would have been amused had he not been suddenly ambushed by a wave of dizziness. Having no intention of making another trip to sickbay that day, he held the palm of one hand to his temple before aiming a thumb over his shoulder at a couple chairs positioned beside the small table.

"We should sit down…"

She eyed him in concern. "Good idea. You're looking pretty wobbly."

He dropped into the nearest seat while Briony took the opposite. "Don't worry about it, I'll…I'll be fine. This is about you, anyway, not me. Go ahead."

"Yes, well…" she said after a brief pause, "Like I said, I have reason to believe someone's stealing from the archives and has been for a while. Probably a black-market racket based on what I saw before the threats started. I don't know what else it could be."

Black-market? That definitely brought the danger level up a notch or two.

"What did you see?"

She swallowed. "Something I shouldn't have, apparently. Last week, I was doing some routine catalog upkeep and I found this random inventory file I'd never seen before. Completely by accident."

"What was in it?"

"Mostly info I could've sworn had already been logged—duplicates—but when I looked closer, a lot of the numbers didn't line up with their counterparts. I did a side-by-side comparison of all the documents and I noticed that the ones from the new file seemed to indicate we were _losing_ items at a steady rate."

"Ze only personnel with access to your system are members of your department; archaeologists, anthropologists, historians, and so on, right?"

"Right. And the weirdest thing," Briony continued, "was that none of the artifacts had been reported missing. I'd seen for myself many times, even earlier that day, that they were all accounted for. I went and pulled a crate of Kuiliar arrowheads to doublecheck…"

"Let me guess, they were all there?"

She nodded. "Every single one. Now, I'll be the first to admit I'm not the most experienced xeno-archaeologist, but it's kind of my job to be able to pick out artifacts— _real_ artifacts—from their surroundings with careful examination. After another, more thorough look and running a quick analysis, I discovered that some of the arrowheads were fake, but the detail...the detail was _impeccable_. At a passing glance, anybody could've written them off as genuine."

"So, this smuggler would hef to be an expert, an insider, someone working wery close to you."

The young woman shuddered. "Creepy as it is, you're right. Whoever's making the copies knows their way around the originals. Only a trained expert familiar with the archives' inventory could recreate some of those relics so convincingly…"

"…and determine ze walue of ze real ones on ze black-market, no?" Chekov finished for her.

"Exactly."

"Okay, this is good!"

"Um…no," Briony said slowly, " _not_ good. I thought we went over this…"

"No, no!" He waved his hands. "It is much better than I thought because now zat we hef significantly narrowed down ze possibilities, all we need is some ewidence and…"

"Yeah, about that," she shifted, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear, "when I came back to the computer after checking the arrowheads, the file was gone. Erased. Vanished without a trace."

"Ah," Chekov held up an index finger, grinning from ear to ear. "I wouldn't be so sure of zat."


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"No," Briony insisted, "I'm telling you, it wasn't there anymore."

"Yes, ze file is likely gone," Chekov confirmed, standing up carefully to avoid another dizzy spell, "but definitely not without a trace, as you say."

"Wait a second," she watched him cross the room, "are you…"

From a corner, Chekov snatched his laptop computer and returned to the table, plunking it down in front of his skeptical-looking friend.

"No way. Don't tell me you're a navigator _and_ a hacker."

"Bongo."

"You mean 'bingo'."

"Agh, yes, bingo, whatever."

No sooner was the laptop open than his fingers began dancing across the keyboard at lightning speed. Curious and more than a little baffled Briony scooted her chair around to his side of the table for a better view.

"Okay, _what_ are you up to, Braincase?"

"I'm remotely accessing your department's system."

"You can…you can _do_ that?"

" _Da._ " He sent her a sly, sideways smile, then shrugged. "It shouldn't be too difficult to track your missing file and, in turn, ze indiwidual who created it."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, you can get into serious trouble for stuff like this, can't you? I'm not going to let you throw away your career just to—"

"I used to go after scam artists when I was a little kid at home in Russia," was all he said in reply.

"So, what, when you were, like, five?"

"More or less. Still do, on occasion."

"Um…how are you still alive?"

"Bingo."

"So...so you...ohhh man, I don't even want to know."

"Ze trick is not to get caught."

"Well, I figured as much."

Unable to suppress a mischievous snicker, he hit enter a couple times, bringing up another black screen crawling with code.

"Aha! Zat wasn't so hard. Your smuggler left behind a trail for us to follow. How wery kind of them."

"This is…this is insane." Briony stared at the laptop, openmouthed in disbelief. "I've been so worried over the past week. If only I could have known all I needed to do was find the smartest kid with the craziest computer skills on the whole ship…"

"Oho," Chekov lifted an eyebrow, waggling a mock-accusing finger at her, "so _zat_ is why you were so eager to get to know me."

She waved him off. "Pfft, nah. I just thought you might be my free ticket onto the bridge."

He halted, leaning back to stare at her.

"Kidding."

"Oh. Eheh..."

"Honestly, though, you seemed like an interesting, smart, friendly crewmember. Simple as that." She thought a moment. "I guess…at the same time, I may have subconsciously hoped that if the thief really were lurking around watching me, they might be intimidated by you."

Chekov choked back a snort. "Intimidated? By _me_? If you were aiming for intimidating, you should hef gone to someone with more authority, like Commander Spock. Or ze keptin. Trust me, they can be wery intimidating."

"I believe you, but wouldn't that've been too conspicuous? Besides, I wasn't 'aiming' for anything. Striking up a friendship with a goldshirt from command just happened to have the added benefit of…well, being friends with a goldshirt from command."

"No, no, I see how it is," Chekov picked up the feigned tone of childish insult again. "Go for ze middle guy. Ze _ensign_. Someone at ze bottom of ze rank ladder so as not to raise suspicion…"

He glanced aside from the screen and was glad to see that her smile had returned, however briefly. She wasn't the same person without it.

"Oh, come on, JP…"

"…but high enough to be a threat. Someone 'unassuming', who can 'fly in under ze scanners and get away with whatever he wants'."

Briony grinned at the serpentine flying motions he made with his hands, complete with sound effects.

"Pew-pew! Problem solved."

That one brought out her full-on, barky laugh. Odd as it was, it was an encouraging sound.

"You're hilarious. And no, it's not like that at all. I told you, I've only been aboard the ship a few weeks, and up until a couple nights ago, I was basically alone. Sure, I've met plenty of nice people, but never, you know," she locked her fingers together tightly to demonstrate her point, " _connected_ with anyone. When this issue popped up, I had no one but myself and it made me nervous. _Very_ nervous. That's why I went to the observation deck that night. In a way, that place makes me feel…safe."

He nodded, knowing exactly what she meant.

"All I wanted was a distraction, to escape for a while, and when I saw you sitting there with your nose stuck in Haslam's Nvvorian theory…" She gave him a playful nudge. "Nobody just _reads_ that book for fun. Nobody except weirdos like you and me, so I knew…I knew you were different. In a good way. It had nothing to do with your rank or your age or the situation I was in. I felt a connection with _you_ , the _person_ beneath it all, and at that moment, that was more important to me than anything else."

He cleared his throat, hoping the flattered warmth in his face wasn't too obvious.

"So, uh…why ze note?" he pushed on. "Why not just ask for help?"

"Like I said, I wasn't actually _looking_ for help, but after we started talking, it occurred to me…"

"Zat you could drag me into this?" Chekov prompted with a wink.

Briony sighed, rolling her eyes. "I was going to say that maybe you could help, but I guess that works too. Anyway, going back to the creepy potential stalker-thief, subtlety was my best option, so, I took a chance, figuring you would either find the note and respond or pass it off as a random fluke and never be the wiser."

A shot of guilt traveled through the young navigator upon realizing how perilously close he'd been to the latter. What would she have done had he dismissed her plea as an anomaly?

"I…I'm glad you found it."

He stopped typing and turned to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I am glad I did too."

Briony opened and closed her mouth a couple times.

"Chekov…" she said at last, eyes flicking up to meet his, "the first of the threats I received came shortly after the file was erased. It said 'keep out or you're next'. I've gotten three more since then, each worse than the last and I…I have no idea what to do. I'm scared. I don't want…"

The young woman took his hand in hers and squeezed, wordlessly communicating her darkest fears.

"I don't want to be 'erased'."

Chekov squeezed back. "I won't let zat heppen."

…

 _The ground beneath his feet was stone; cold, aged and solid, as were the walls of the passage he was standing in. It was dark, save for a brilliant line of vertical light ahead of him. Though distant, warmth and safety radiated from it like a midday sun, gently beckoning him._

 _He walked cautiously, each step in time with his heartbeat. Soon enough, the tunnel ended, opening into a wide, circular chamber. The source of the light, he discovered, was a beam stabbing through the impossibly lofty ceiling like a pillar to illuminate a perfect, fire-rimmed circle in the middle of the floor._

 _The circle held within it a great power, a source of life but also of cleansing destruction. He could feel it pulsating, calling to him and him alone. The desire to see what fate awaited him inside the flames was suddenly insatiable. As he was about to run to it, he found himself immobilized by an invisible force. He struggled against it in fear and confusion, fighting the prickling energy._

 _"Not yet, Young One."_

 _Immediately, he halted._

 _That voice._

 _It sounded like a single being, but carried legions of others with it. Commanding and reassuring, it was everywhere at once, yet nowhere at all. Above, below, inside him._

 _"You are worthy, but you are not yet ready."_

 _"Who are you?" he asked._

 _"We are the Last Ones, the displaced remnants of a once vast and glorious civilization, and now we shall be the first. The time has come, for Araxis approaches. We feel his presence near."_

 _"Ar...Araxis? What is…what do you mean?"_

 _"We are those you have been chosen by the Vessel to protect. You are The Guardian and you must bring us home to begin the cycle anew and restore what was lost."_

 _To his dismay, the shaft of light began to fade and darkness rapidly closed about him. Black, starless darkness. The worst kind._

 _"Wait! I-I don't understand!" The force released him and he reached—for what, he couldn't comprehend—only to grasp nothing. "Don't leave me here! Please!"_

 _"Follow the stars, Young One, for they will not betray you."_

 _"But there aren't any here! I can't see them! I can't see the stars! I can't see the…I can't…see…"_

With a yell, Chekov sat bolt upright, eyes snapping open. Gasping, he realized he was on the floor. How he'd gotten there, he could only guess. Wiping droplets of sweat from his brow, he scrambled to his feet, only to be greeted by the same grinding headache he'd been plagued with all day…

How long had he been out?

He made the mistake of spinning around to snatch the alarm clock from the shelf at the head of his bed and reeled, ending up back on the floor, this time on his knees. When his sight cleared enough, he looked up…and froze in horror. Jagged scratches and gouges marred the once smooth wall above the bed. They appeared random and crude, like the work of a crazed caveman, nothing more than a series of lines and zigzags…except for the unmistakable beginning of a large arc at the bottom. The alarm clock slipped from his numb fingers and it was then he realized his other hand was still clutching something.

 _What in the—?_ he thought, gaping at the object he held.

A screwdriver?

Had he just… _attacked_ his wall?

Chekov threw the tool across the room like it was a poisonous snake, then stood, pressing his fists into his temples as he bolted for the shower. Without even bothering to undress, he jumped in and cranked it to the highest, coldest setting. The jets of water were not nearly as shocking as the electricity from the sphere, but strong enough for a reality check, which was what he needed more than anything right now. He forced himself to stand in the icy downpour for several minutes, letting the rivulets cascade from his head, trickle over his face, run down his back.

 _Breathe…you've got to breathe…_

What was wrong with him? Had the demands of serving aboard a starship at such a young age finally caught up with him? Could he be having a mental breakdown or mid-life crisis at the tender age of eighteen?

No. No way. He was simply stressed and overreacting to a weird dream and a random bout of sleep-walking…wall-scratching…whatever. These things could happen to anyone, right?

 _I should go back to medbay…_

But what could he tell Dr. McCoy that wouldn't get him committed for the rest of his life? Normal, healthy people didn't go crazy on walls with screwdrivers they didn't even know they possessed, especially not in their sleep—

 _Ugh, I am NOT going to medbay and I am NOT going insane._

…And yet, here he was, standing in the shower fully clothed and arguing with himself.

Chekov shut it off and leaned against the frosted glass door, forehead on his crossed arms. As much as he didn't want to believe it, this was really happening. All of it. To him.

With a groan, he opened the door and stumbled out of the shower stall. Maybe he wasn't insane yet, but his situation was quickly driving him in that direction. Why was he suddenly the universal go-to problem solver for everyone and everything in existence? First an artifact thief, now the entirety of a disembodied civilization had apparently chosen him to be their savior. What was next? A call from Starfleet demanding he negotiate peace between the Federation and the Klingon Empire by himself?

In a haze, he finally decided that standing here dripping wet and panicking wasn't going to get him anywhere. Shivering, he peeled off the soaked clothing and replaced them with a t-shirt and sweatpants. It always felt a little odd to be out of uniform, but if he was going to be off-duty and stuck in his quarters with a thief to catch and a confusing hallucination to contemplate for forty-eight hours, he might as well be comfortable.

Toweling his hair (which thankfully no longer resembled a sheep), he plopped into the chair by the table where his laptop was still open and running. Hours before, Chekov had set up a personalized, concealed monitoring program through the ship's system, and with Briony's permission, he was now remotely tracking both her movements and the activity in the archives.

Instead of going through the security cameras, which would have made it more difficult to camp out in the _Enterprise's_ electronic hub without being noticed, his program utilized the ship's built-in sensors to lock on to Briony's coordinates and feed the info directly into his computer. He could pinpoint exactly where she was at any time and could even read her vitals. If someone decided to go through with a threat, he would know within moments.

It was actually Briony who'd brought up the idea. Chekov had been hesitant, pointing out that it felt a little too close to stalking, which made him uncomfortable and besides, wasn't one person watching her enough?

"It's _not_ stalking," she'd insisted. "It's a _precaution_. First, it's for my own safety. Second, I suggested it, which means I've agreed to allow it. And third, I'd feel a lot safer knowing at least one pair of eyes belongs to someone I can trust."

He couldn't counter that.

When his friend left, the young Russian, headache and all, began tackling the challenge. As was to be expected, it took quite a while for him to create even the tiniest crack in the ship's army of hefty firewalls. It was difficult, but not impossible. If he had learned anything during his many forays into the danger-ridden world of expert hacking, it was that every system, however elaborate, had a weakness.

The _Enterprise_ was tricky, playing coy and leading him to believe more than once that he'd discovered how to get under her shell only to nimbly dodge him at the last second. This was exactly what she was designed to do, so, unperturbed and determined to treat her like the sophisticated cybernetic lady she was, Chekov coaxed her little by little into letting him squeeze through her defenses.

Once he'd unlocked her "mind", there wasn't much she could hide from him and she told him almost everything; where to access the sensors, how to acquire and integrate the information needed for tracking Briony, what Sulu was having for dinner—which was purely by accident. In return, Chekov vowed to patch up the hole in her system's wall after this issue was resolved and leave it better than he'd found it. He would never compromise her secrets.

Now, hours later, he tapped the keyboard a couple times, sifting through various screens and windows until he found the one he was looking for. A quick scan of the readouts informed him that Briony was currently in her cabin with a roommate, unmoving, her breathing slow and stable, her pulse even. She must be asleep, which made Chekov wonder if this might be the first peace she'd had this week. It was satisfying to know that by doing what he could to look out for another, he was allowing them some worry-free rest.

Unfortunately, the worrying was now his responsibility, tired as he was. The alert app Chekov had designed specifically for the program would notify him of any suspicious activity, however, he felt better watching in real time. Well, for now, anyway. He didn't know how much longer he would last before sleep claimed him too.

With barely a twitch of a finger, he brought up a detailed live schematic of the archives. A few colored blips with ID numbers floating above them told him they were still active. He wasn't surprised, as the ship hummed with activity around the clock, but one particular blip caught his interest. While the other individuals wandered about the space in wide, casual movements, this one remained relatively stationary in a remote corner of an annex space labeled "vault".

81DD7

Why was this ID number so familiar…?

…

It was always so blessedly quiet here in this tiny nook no one else seemed to know or care about. He found it amusing that a ship full of trained officers could overlook a breach like this so easily, which only made it that much more satisfying. They were so stupid. So pitifully, hilariously stupid. Every single one of them.

He leaned over the artifact he was meticulously duplicating, bits and pieces of mental data flickering before his eyes as he processed every crack, every nuance, every detail at incredible speed. Of course, there had always been the option of replicating the fakes, but they never turned out as convincingly as they did when created with that superior touch a machine simply wasn't capable of.

Accuracy was vital in this line of work, but these people were idiots, never noticing what was right under their noses for months...well, until _she_ came along. _She_ had to be the exception. _She_ had to be the one to stumble upon his documents and send him scrambling to wipe the evidence.

It was the closest he'd ever been to a slip-up thus far in his quest and it could never happen again. Fortunately, just one week prior, he'd taken the precaution of tricking the ship's system into switching his identity with that of coworker, one he particularly despised.

Satisfied with the outcome of his current project, he placed the doppelganger relic inside the crate with its genuine counterparts. The authentic one it had replaced went into the larger box he'd been busy preparing for transport for the last few hours. It was full of precious artifacts—carefully selected from the archives' inventory so as to avoid detection while garnering the highest price possible—and ready for delivery to his contact.

Now there was one item of business left to take care of. He'd made a few extra duplicates, and tonight, along with a real artifact or two, they would find their way into a certain colleague's locker. Very soon, if everything went smoothly, they would get the blame, they would be arrested, clearing his tracks and eliminating an annoyance all at once. Then he would be free to continue with the mission he was really here for.

 _Where_ _was it?_

He was so close to his goal now that he could feel its resonating aura. Day by maddening day, it grew stronger, taunting him at every turn like the scent of fresh meat. He just had to locate it, then the real fun would begin. No more hiding, no more pretending, no more searching.

With that, he was reminded of the need to double check his itinerary. Unfortunately, drop-offs were the most complicated and dangerous part of this loathsome business, but mistakes were not an option. If anything was out of place, it would seriously complicate things, unraveling the useful network he'd built up, setting him back months, maybe years.

Mentally reviewing the list of details that needed solidifying before it was safe to proceed with the drop, he picked up his glowing PADD. Just as the tip of his finger touched the screen, it went blank. He was about to curse the troublesome bit of lowly technology when, much to his surprise, large, bold-faced words began marching across the blackness…

 _I AM WATCHING YOU_

Confused at first, he attempted to swipe the malfunctioning device clean. Instead of having the desired effect, more words appeared.

 _I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE_

 _I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING_

This was impossible! How...who… _where_ …?

 _AND IF YOU HURT ANYONE…I WILL KNOW_

There was a pause, almost as if whoever (or whatever) was sending the messages was waiting for a response. His pulse picked up, a thousand worst case scenarios whirling through his head, none of which turned out in his favor. Someone out there, some literal phantom being he couldn't see, hear, touch, or _eliminate_ , had _found_ him.

 _Who are you?_

He held his breath in anticipation of the answer.

 _I AM THE GUARDIAN_


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Chekov awoke wondering why his pillow felt so hard and flat, only to realize he was face-down on his laptop's keyboard. He couldn't recall falling asleep and for a fleeting moment, his mind was blissfully absent. There were no mysterious voices, no dangerous smugglers, no gouges in the wall. Too soon, however, the beginnings of a dull headache dragged the bizarre events of the past two days back into his memory.

 _Maybe…maybe it was just a dream? A really, really stupid, stressful dream. I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy…_

In the deepest pit of his stomach, he already knew it was no dream, but a guy could hope, couldn't he?

 _Okay, on three. One…two…three._

Lifting his face off the keyboard, he sat up and pried his eyelids apart.

 _Why did I even bother?_

There on the screen of the laptop was the schematic of the archives, now bustling with dots and identification numbers, one of which, he noted briefly, was Briony's. Groggy and quickly losing faith in his sanity, Chekov stood and turned a slow circle, wincing with every reminder of his odd experience he took in. To his right, the pile of sodden clothes he had shed after the impromptu shower was still in a heap on the floor. Behind him, he found the screwdriver lying exactly where it had landed after he'd thrown it. And finally, there was the damaged wall.

With a grunt of frustration, he whirled around and flumped backwards onto his bed.

"I knew it," he moaned, covering his face with his hands. "Why did I hef to touch zat stupid sphere? Whyyyy?"

"Funny you should ask," said a clear, deep voice from somewhere behind him, "since it called and _you_ answered."

With a very unflattering shriek, Chekov catapulted off the bed and went sprawling on the floor beside it. The pain in his backside was nothing compared to the shock of discovering a dark-haired man in a long green coat standing before him. His appearance was that of an average human; medium height and build, brown skin, a friendly, symmetrical face with broad features, even a goatee that looked like it had been attached to his chin simply for the fun of it. The intruder could have passed for anybody one might run into on an earthly street…except for the eyes. Those were definitely alien. Pupil-less, they glowed an unnatural and intense shade of aquamarine.

"Forgive me," the newcomer said, sounding as if he was about to meet a long-idolized hero, "but you're the first being I've encountered in _eons_ who meets every qualification for this job. And, as your kind are so fond of saying, that's a huge deal."

Trembling, Chekov could only blink.

"I admit, I never thought this day would come." The clear voice wavered with emotion. "I guess I never should have doubted. Can…can I hug you, Young One?"

The boy yelped in horror, crab-crawling backwards until he hit the corner. There, he made up for the abrupt lack of an escape route by continuing to vocalize his sheer, dumbfounded shock in no quiet manner.

The man rubbed his forehead, slightly amused by this, if not a little irritated.

"Sorry, sorry, I wasn't serious about the hug. You can stop yelling."

Chekov managed to choke off the sound, but his mouth remained wide open, the now silent scream hissing out of it like air from a punctured tire.

"And feel free to close your mouth whenever you want. Come on, you're making this weird."

"Who are—h-how did—where—INTRUDER ALERT!" Chekov scrabbled outward until one hand closed around the screwdriver. Without hesitation, he flung it full-force at the man, then gaped in bewilderment as it sailed right through him.

"Please don't do that," the man sighed, rolling his eyes. "I feel awkward enough in this human manifestation as it is. Speaking of which, what do you think?" Arms outstretched, he twirled in place. "I mean it's kind of generic, but all in all not bad, right?"

"S-SECURITY!" Clamoring to his feet, Chekov snatched his communicator from a nearby shelf and fumbled it open.

"Oh, you probably shouldn't do that, either."

"ENSIGN CHEKOV TO SECUR—" The rest of the sentence was trapped behind his teeth as his entire body seized and went rigid as stone. It felt exactly like the chilling, invisible force from his strange dream the night before, which only made it more frightening. Had the option been available then, Chekov would have panicked and bolted, and that, he concluded, was exactly what the alien was preventing.

"Shh!" hushed the man—almost comically—before swiping the communicator from Chekov's stiff fingers and crunching it to bits.

"Hrr!" the teen exclaimed through clenched jaws, unable to pry them apart. "Lrt mrr grr!"

"I'll let you go as soon as you promise keep it down."

"Er-kr! Er-krrrr!"

The man tilted his head, his expression one of genuine confusion. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Er srrd _er-krr_!"

"You said 'okay'?"

"Yrs!"

"Okay. And you're not going to run away from me?"

Chekov had to think about that one. An alien life-form, he could deal with. Remaining frozen and unable to do _anything_ , including defending himself from said alien if necessary, was much less appealing.

"Nr."

"Was that a 'no'?"

"Rrrgh, yrs, ert wrs er nr! Lrt…mrr… _grr!_ "

"Alright, alright. But seriously, you have _got_ to stop with the yelling." The man brandished a finger. "You'll have the whole crew in here, the rate you're going."

"Zat's ze idea!" Chekov snapped as his body loosened.

"Take it easy. It was for your own good, you know, and as long as you stay cool and work with me, it won't happen again."

This was beginning to sound a _lot_ like blackmail, however, it probably wasn't a good idea to mention that out loud, Chekov thought.

"You're the only person in the universe who can see or hear me," the man continued, "so calling security wouldn't have gotten you anywhere but the psych ward, and we really can't have that. Not at a time like this. And I'm not going to harm you, Young One, you have my word. My name is Matharus and I'm here to help you."

"I…I…you…" was all the boy could splutter as he backed into a wall.

"Yes, while we're on the subject, allow me to offer my sincerest apologies for the scare. I took this form in hope of evading such a reaction, but I guess humans are a little more…ah…mentally fragile—or was that fragile-ly mental?—than I thought."

"I'm not frag— _how did you get in here?_ "

Matharus shrugged, aiming a thumb over his shoulder. "The same way you did. Through the door." The man lifted a hand before the other could respond. "Ah-ah, I know what you're going to say, and the answer is that I'm not really here. I mean, not in the physical sense. Well, I exist, but I'm not...ugh, you know what? Let's just say I'm in your head and leave it at that for now."

"You are— _urghk_ …" the ensign had to pause to fight the growing nausea, "… _inside_ my mind? Then how are you standing—ze screwdriver…it went st-st-straight through you, b-but— _this makes no sense!_ "

"The rules are complicated," Matharus agreed, folding his arms, "and, to be completely honest, I don't have it all worked out myself, but we can discuss the actual physics—or lack thereof—later."

"This isn't physics," Chekov muttered. "This is ridiculous."

"Hey, the good thing is that since I'm in your head, I know everything _you_ know. Uh—almost everything. Don't worry, we thought it might be wise to allow you to maintain at least a little privacy, for obvious reasons."

" _We_?"

Matharus huffed. "Yes, 'we'. _We_ are the last of a highly-advanced civilization…"

"Wait, when you say 'last of a ciwilization'…how much is 'last'?"

The alien calculated a moment. "Eh, I'd say around a million, give or take—whoa!"

Reeling, Chekov slid down the wall, wobbly legs having finally failed him. Matharus caught him under the arms as he hit rock bottom.

"No—nope—no, this is important. I'm sorry, small human, I understand it's a bit much for your finite intellectual faculties to process, but you can't pass out on me now. Deep breaths, deeeeeep breaths, stay with me, that's it…"

He propped the young man up as well as he could, making sure he was stable enough before going on.

"Okay, where was I? Oh!" Matharus cleared his throat purposefully, puffing out his chest. "I, Matharus, have been charged by The Supreme Council to act as a liaison between you—The Guardian—and my people. Brief rundown: before all life on our home-planet was wiped out, we uploaded every consciousness we could save into the Vessel—blahblahblah, lots of drama and explosions—and we've been stuck in there for the last few eons. Get all that?"

Matharus allowed Chekov a moment to cling to the wall while attempting to comprehend. It wasn't bad enough that he was seeing things, oh no. This particular delusion had to come with its own healthy sense of sarcasm. Or was it humor? Either way, it was annoying and potentially dangerous and didn't bode well for his future.

"Congratulations! You're the lucky guy responsible for returning us home and setting us free so we can pick up where we left off. The survival of our entire race depends on you."

At that, the ensign uttered a strangled moan, grabbing his hair in his fists and lurching toward the table.

"Zat's it. It's finally heppened. I hef completely lost it. Snapped! Got ze bats in my belfries! There goes my career, there goes my life, my sanity… _everything_ , swoosh, down ze drain!"

"I thought we might have some trouble," Matharus said. "And I can assure you, you're not going insane."

Chekov shot him a dark look. "Right, like I'm going believe _zat_ coming from a hallucination."

"And I'm not a hallucination. Listen to me, Young One, the sooner you stop trying to understand and agree to cooperate, the sooner we get out of your brain and leave you alone. Trust me, this arrangement is just as awkward for us as it is for you, so it'll be a win-win for everyone involved."

This hit a sensitive nerve. There was no way he was going to let a figment of his overly-taxed mind tell him what to do, especially when it believed his mind was inferior and wanted him to "stop trying to understand". That simply wasn't going to fly.

"No!" The boy threw his arms out in total exasperation. "No, I understand perfectly! I am _not_ going to listen to you and I am _not_ going cooperate. I've got enough to worry about and I'm through, Mister Thesaurus—"

"That's 'Matharus—"

"Don't care! I'm about ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure you're not real, and if you are, you're going to hef to find somebody else for this imaginary 'job'!"

"There _is_ no one else—"

"You hef got to be kidding me!" With an animated gesture, Chekov indicated the small viewport across the room. "There are trillions upon trillions upon _trillions_ of other beings out there. One of them is bound to be a much better choice than me, so take your pick and go away!"

"Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of the laptop today…"

"I hef a headache, no thanks to you!"

"Understandable, but it doesn't work like that. I can't just go away."

The argument dropped into silence briefly as a triumphant smirk made its way across Chekov's lips.

"Or can you?" He could tell by Matharus's shrinking posture that he didn't like where this was going. Good. "If you really are inside my head, as you say, then there should be no stopping me from making you disappear. Right here and now."

"What?!" cried Matharus as he began to fade around the edges. "You're not supposed to be able to— _I'm inside your mind!_ "

"Oops." The navigator shrugged, the very picture of innocence. "I guess humans are not as 'mentally fragile' as you thought."

The manifestation looked down at his steadily dissolving form. "Help! I'm melting, _melting!_ How did I not see this coming?!"

"Sorry, my brain, my rules." Chekov saluted. " _Do svidaniya_ , Metatarus."

"Stop—don't—that's not my n—"

With a tiny pop, Matharus was gone.

 _Ha! Who's inferior now?_

Several breathless moments past before Chekov felt confident enough to move, after which his first act was to spin a quick circle and thoroughly survey the room. Once satisfied that he was alone, he threw on some shoes and a jacket, scooped up his laptop, and headed for the door.

He wanted out. He wanted to be with other people, _real_ people. Strangely, he felt as if the safety of tangible company might deter a reappearance of the bizarre hallucination. And what he needed more than anything else was someone to listen, preferably someone who wouldn't immediately drag him off to medbay, but keep him grounded and help him better understand this problem without all the poking and sarcasm.

As he entered the lift, he pulled the jacket's hood up over his head. Though he sought escape from isolation, he wanted to be with the _right_ person—whoever they may turn out to be—and he hoped to avoid unnecessary attention along the way. But _which_ way? Who was he trying to find?

Chekov sifted through the familiar faces of his bridge family. Uhura or Sulu would have been his first choices, but as far as he could remember, both were on duty and would not be off for several more hours. Chekov wasn't sure he could wait that long, let alone if he should. Captain Kirk? No way, he had enough on his plate already. Besides, he was…well, the captain. What about Spock? No, no, no, absolutely not. The Vulcan would understandably want to observe the issue at its source via mind-meld, and the last thing Chekov wanted right now was one more consciousness rooting around inside his head.

The lift stopped and, much to Chekov's distress, the doors parted to admit two chatting officers; one tall and gold and holding a mug, the other much shorter and clad in red. This might as well be his stop, the young man thought, and ducked his head, charging forward. However, in his effort to make a hasty exit and appear inconspicuous, Chekov bowled into the taller person, causing the contents of the mug to slosh all over their front.

Chekov's stomach dropped, eyes widening as he slowly, cautiously lifted his face.

"K-keptin!" he blurted in horror.

Blinking, Kirk pressed his lips together, giving a huff before glancing down to assess the condition of his now not-so-gold uniform shirt. The ensign couldn't quite tell if his commanding officer was upset, amused, or simply annoyed.

"Well, Mister Chekov," he said after clearing his throat, making a vain attempt at wiping the growing stain. "What a surprise."

"Where are yeh off to in such a rush, laddie?" queried Scotty. "Yeh look like yeh've seen a ghost."

"To…to, um…the archives." It was the first place that came to Chekov's mind, which wasn't exactly a bad thing. Now he just needed to back it up. "I'm, er…doing research…sir. It's important."

"Research?" The captain shared a brief glance with the engineer, then returned to the boy with raised eyebrows. "Chekov, it's great to see you up and around, but shouldn't you be in your quarters recovering from an electrical shock?"

"Uh, y-yes, Keptin." Chekov scurried past his seniors into the hallway. "But…I was just…I got bored and there was this— _ahem_ —thing zat heppened and I need to…figure it out. Wery important."

"Yes, you already mentioned that."

"I did? Oh…oh, yeah, sorry…"

"So, what is it?" Scotty said. "What happened? Something we can help yeh with?"

"No, nope, not at all. Everything is…everything is under control, and I am definitely not insane—I mean in trouble—I mean in need of ze assistance…whatsoever. Eheh…"

Kirk tilted his head. "Are you sure you're—"

"No!" The younger officer threw out a hand, quickly hiding it behind his back upon realizing how guilty it made him appear, then strolled casually backwards toward the nearest adjoining corridor. "I mean yes, I'm sure. I'm great! I feel great, sir."

The captain and the chief engineer both eyed him.

"I'm wery sorry, Keptin, but I-I hef to go…" Flashing a thumbs-up and painfully fake grin, Chekov turned and rounded the corner.

"Well, that was…interesting," he heard Captain Kirk mutter.

"Aye, kids these days, am I righ'?"


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Though Chekov spent most of it cursing himself for acting like such an idiot, the rest of his trip was free of incident and the sight of the archive's glass doors at the end of it raised his spirits a little. He slipped inside on the heels of a science officer, intending to continue straight to the archaeology lab, but before he could pass, she stopped suddenly.

"Sorry…" he muttered after bumping into her. When she didn't answer, he peered around her shoulder, wondering what had brought her—and everyone else in the room—to a halt.

"I'm telling you," snapped another science officer beside the computer console, "you've completely messed this thing up!"

To the man's right was none other than Tall-Dark-and-Snotty.

"So, you're saying I'm wrong?" Schvaneveldt fired back.

"Yes! That's exactly what I'm—look at this!" The other man gestured to the splattering of numbers and symbols on the clear glass-pane monitor. "I mean…just… _how_? Were you trained in a twentieth-century barn? I had no _idea_ anybody could screw up a catalog file like this."

"Oh, relax, Stevenson," Schvaneveldt groaned rolling his eyes. "It'll work itself out eventually."

Fuming, the colleague tapped the screen a little too emphatically, prompting a complaining beep and several flashing messages from the machine.

"No, I won't relax and no, it won't 'work itself out eventually'. I don't know what you did, but you've frozen the system and locked _everyone_ out of it! For all I know, you could have deleted the entire database!"

Chekov sidestepped the woman as quietly as he could, pulling his jacket hood closer and slouching forward as he walked, hoping to sneak by without notice.

"Oh, goody, look who it is," Schvaneveldt sneered, leaning against the console. "Our resident underage archaeology enthusiast, back for more."

The boy immediately froze in his tracks.

"Y-yes, hello," he muttered, raising his head.

"No gold shirt today, huh? Let me guess, they kicked you off the bridge for staying up past your bedtime?"

"No, actually, I'm off-duty because I am recovering from an accidental electrical shock." He let Schvaneveldt stew in that not-so-subtle shot of guilt.

"Oh!" exclaimed Stevenson before Schvaneveldt could reply, shoving him aside. "Oh, you are a _godsend_! Exactly the person we need right now. Please, _please,_ fix this mess so we can get back to work!"

Annoyed as he was at being called out in such an embarrassing manner, Chekov simply couldn't pass up an opportunity to go head-to-head with a stubborn computer. After delivering his laptop into the hands of Stevenson, Chekov rolled his shoulders and shook his hands out as if he were about to play a complicated Rachmaninoff piano concerto. It was a short, mostly subconscious ritual he performed before attempting anything technical like taking his station on the bridge, reprogramming various ship functions, or stalking smugglers.

All attention settled on the Russian Wonder as he took over the console, which would have made him feel awkward had there not been a misbehaving piece of technology under his fingers. Instead, everything faded into the background, becoming nothing more than white noise. They were alone, just him and a knot of code on a glass panel. It was easy enough to untangle and soon, with a final tap, the computer rebooted, crystal clear and running smoothly.

"There you go." He stepped aside, offering a half-smile and eager to be on his way.

Stevenson appeared so happy he could cry. Schvaneveldt, however, scowled.

"Is…something wrong?"

"You're just little punk," the tall man huffed, "that's what's wrong. I was halfway through the Academy before you were even out of diapers."

"Uh…good for you…?"

"Yeah, _good for me_." Schvaneveldt poked the ensign in the chest. "Good for me for graduating top of my class, fighting my way up the ladder and punching through all the idiots for _years_ to get one lousy place on a federation research team. Good for me for getting swept under the rug with everyone else whenever some new twerp like you comes along. And why do you little runts always have to be teenagers? That's the worst part."

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be sewen—eighteen," Chekov spluttered in confusion. "I mean, I was only trying to—why are you upset with—we are not even in ze same department!"

Scvhaneveldt advanced, causing the navigator to stumble backwards. It seemed somehow unfitting to Chekov to fall into a wall of artifact containers instead of a row of lockers under the glower of a bully. Fortunately, the storage slots were much too small for anyone to be stuffed into. And there were plenty of witnesses here. This was the most damage Schvaneveldt could do…for now.

"Doesn't matter. You don't deserve your place on this starship. You don't deserve a place on _any_ starship at your age while the rest of us—the rest of the _adults_ —slave away at the bottom."

"Knock it off, Schvaneveldt!" someone called from the sidelines.

"Seriously?" Chekov regained his balance, making a point of returning the older man's acidic stare with a few daggers of his own. "It's ze twenty-third century. Shouldn't morons like you have been eliminated from ze genepool by now?"

A few "ooh"s spread through the crowd, only serving to agitate Schvaneveldt further.

"Oh, don't worry," he spat. "As long as there are brats like _you_ running around, there will always be someone to put you back in your place. Get used to it."

The young Russian's fists clenched.

 _Don't do it, Pavel, don't punch him in his stupid face, it's not worth it. You're a command officer, so be a command officer. You're on the bridge, he's not…_

The tall man threw one last condescending smirk over his shoulder as he made for the exit. "Well, kiddo, enjoy your field trip but try not to wander off. You don't want to be late for snack time."

He rounded the corner, leaving a flustered Chekov burning with humiliation in the gaze of the bystanders.

"Sorry about that," Stevenson murmured, dropping the laptop back into its owner's hands. "Trust me, it's not you. Guy's a piece of work and throws a fit over some stupid new issue every day, I swear. And thanks for the quick-fix, kid. Way to save our system…and our butts."

"Uh, you're…you're welcome. Any time." Chekov nodded vigorously, watching the grateful science officer hurry off.

 _"Chekov? Ensign Chekov!"_

Chekov started at the sound of his title spoken in his native language and turned around.

 _"What's everyone staring at?"_ Dr. Sylar approached him. _"I hope Schvaneveldt wasn't giving anybody a hard time again."_

Chekov rubbed the back of his neck in response, unable to meet the other man's eyes.

 _"Ah, I see. Honestly, I think he just likes the attention, but mark my words, someday it's going to come back to bite him."_ Sliding an arm around the boy's shoulders, Dr. Sylar steered him into the archaeology lab. _"Anyway, it's best to forget him. You're here to see Briony, I assume?"_

As expected, Sylar's assistant was hovering over the farthest workstation, completely absorbed in the shiny object she was cleaning under a lamp.

"Briony, my dear," the doctor called in Standard, "you have company."

She straightened, a grin instantly gracing her round face. Chekov had to wonder how she managed to stay so cheerful in the midst of her dangerous situation and wished that he possessed such a gift as well.

"Oh, Braincase! Hi!"

The nickname brought a faint smile to the ensign's lips. It felt wonderful and warm, like sunlight through storm clouds. If only he could keep it handy for when he needed it most, as Briony seemed to do.

"Yes, well," Dr. Sylar gave Chekov a light tap between the shoulder blades and headed for the door, "as much as I'd love to stick around, I've still got a pile of scrolls from Proctaria-7 that won't organize themselves."

"All right, I'll see you later, Dr. Sylar." Briony put down the tiny brush she had been using and deposited the artifact into a crate, sealing it before hurrying over. With her hands shoved into her lab coat pockets, she appeared more like an elated schoolgirl than a Starfleet science specialist. "So, how's the head—oh…oh, wow…" Her expression dropped into deep concern. "Just Pavel, you look awful."

He had no doubt about that. Tracking down smugglers and debating with stubborn hallucinations on very little sleep and a killer headache would do that to a guy, he guessed. His cringed while his friend studied him from head to toe, worry lines lengthening on her face. Chekov could see his reflection in the lenses of her glasses and he looked exactly how he felt; like a child. A small, wide-eyed, terrified child.

"Something's wrong," Briony concluded at last. "I mean, something other than our current issue, right?"

He nodded without saying a word, and he didn't have to. Everything she needed to know was right there on his face, in his eyes, in his posture, all for the world to see.

Briony's next question caught him completely off-guard. "Have…have you eaten anything today?"

He blinked, then shook his head and winced as a sharp pain jabbed through it.

"Okay, come with me," she spun him around and shuffled him toward the door, "let's get some food in you before anything else. I promise it'll help."

…

Much of the walk to the mess hall was a blur. People passed by in smears of red, blue, and gold, and between mounting worry and jolts of pain, Chekov heard Briony talking about—among many other things—being able to think better on a full stomach. He could neither agree or disagree, having never tried the theory out for himself, but now was as good a time as any since he was in need of all the extra thinking help he could get.

Soon, he found himself seated across from her, squinting at her over a couple plates of warm, delicious-smelling…what _was_ it? Chekov had sampled a wide variety of dishes since entering the Academy and landing a position on the _Enterprise_ , but he was in unfamiliar territory with this one. He definitely would've remembered the sweet, spicy, _amazing_ …

Briony stabbed a fork into her helping and shoveled in a mouthful, closing her eyes as she savored it.

"Mmmyeah. Really hits the spot, huh?"

He glanced down. Occupying his own plate was another sizeable triangle of the stuff. The outside was a golden brown and flaky crust, and the inside oozed with a thick, gooey sauce full of…were those apple chunks? Those were apple chunks.

Briony lifted an eyebrow. "Um, you're supposed to eat it, not memorize it."

"What…what _is_ it?"

The young woman's fork clattered onto the tabletop. "Are you kidding—apple pie. This is apple p—don't tell me you've never had apple pie before."

"I hef never had apple pie before." Chekov shrugged apologetically.

"Whaaaaat? How can you not have had apple pie?"

"I don't know. I guess I never got around to trying it…?"

"Oh, Just Pavel," she sighed, shaking her head, "you poor, poor thing. I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"That you've been deprived of the sheer joy that is apple pie up to this point in your life. However, I am _deeply_ honored to be the lucky one to introduce you to it now. Apple pie, Ensign Chekov. Ensign Chekov, apple pie. There, you can go ahead and try it."

With her blessing, the ensign scooped up a bite…

This was a confection of pure, simple beauty. It was impossibly tart, sweet and buttery all at the same time, a perfect blend of rich flavor and soft texture. Melting into his taste buds like a piece of heaven, the food instantly won his highest approval, and it must have shown, judging by Briony's light giggle.

"Wonderful, isn't it?"

He didn't answer out loud, figuring that the second forkful already going into his mouth spoke for itself.

"It's my favorite," Briony went on, dissecting her slice in search of the tastiest morsel. "Not as good as my Granna used to make for me—and no replicator will _ever_ rival her cooking, of course—but it reminds me of home. You know, takes my mind off things, puts me at ease. It's a comfort food—whoa, take it easy, Braincase!"

Much to the astonishment of each, they found Chekov's plate to be nearly empty.

"I think I might hef been hungry."

Briony snorted. "No kidding. Hey, you're looking better, at any rate."

"I'm _feeling_ better."

"See? What did I tell you? Food helps everything." She settled with her elbows on the table and her chin resting on clasped hands. "So, are you ready to tell me what's wrong?"

No. No, he wasn't, but it didn't matter. Chekov had to confide in someone or risk driving himself further down the path to the psych ward. How was he supposed to put it, though? It had to make sense and it had to get straight to the point…

"Do you…do you think I am crazy?"

…and it probably shouldn't have been like that.

Briony tilted her head to the side.

"Do I what?"

"I…I said, um…" Chekov stalled, occupying himself by picking up Briony's pen and scribbling on a napkin before lowering his voice and repeating the question. "Do you think I am crazy?"

There was no hesitation.

"Pft, of course I think you're crazy!"

Though he'd become increasingly doubtful of his sanity over the last few hours, this was not quite the response Chekov had been hoping for. However, he only had himself to blame for phrasing the question so poorly in the first place.

"You're an eighteen-year-old ensign sitting on the bridge of the Federation's flagship! If that's not crazy, I don't know what…is…" she faded as Chekov's already downcast demeanor drooped further and he continued scribbling. "Oh…ohhh, no, that wasn't the type of 'crazy' you meant, was it?"

He shook his head and Briony retreated from the table. Pressing her hands into her lap while chewing a lip, an embarrassed flush bloomed beneath the freckles on her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Pavel, I completely misunderstood…" Again, she drifted, this time squinting at the napkin. "What's that?"

To his astonishment, Chekov realized his drawing was a more complete and organized version of the one he'd carved in his wall. It was an ellipse encompassing several smaller circles, which in turn housed what were clearly symbols belonging to a written language. A language he'd never seen in his life.

It was happening. Again. And while he was fully awake in the presence of another person.

"It's…nothing." He dropped the pen, crossing his arms over the napkin and hoping the panic wasn't too obvious. "I was thinking, zat is all."

"Um, forgive me for prying, but do you normally sketch mandalas on napkins while deep in thought?"

Chekov couldn't exactly tell if she was serious or not. "N-no—I mean, yes! All ze time, actually. Yes, it's just…what I do, heh."

"Okay, this is going to sound strange, but..." forehead creasing, Briony slipped into her own thoughts for a few seconds, "I could swear I've seen the design before. Fairly recently, too. Would you mind if I borrowed that?"

 _Yes._

"Oh! No, no, not at all. Here, it's all yours." Grimacing, he didn't move.

"Uh..." Gingerly, she lifted his arms and removed the napkin from under them, tucking it inside her notebook. "Thanks. Anyway, all random mandala-doodling aside, why would I think you're crazy?"

 _Because I sleep-gouged a bunch of weird symbols into my wall and I'm almost convinced there's an entire alien civilization represented by an annoying guy named Matharus that only I can see or hear living inside my head._

"Because…er…" he shoved aside his plate, replacing it with his laptop, "because I stayed up most of ze night tracking our artifact thief."

Briony's eyebrows knit together in mild suspicion. "Is that really why you asked?"

"Yes," Chekov answered a little too quickly. "Here, let me show you what I found." He turned the computer sideways, allowing them both a decent view of the screen, and pulled up the schematic from the previous night's stakeout.

"Hey, the archives!" Briony sounded impressed.

"Yes, but this is only ze beginning." Chekov hit a key and the schematic came to life with flitting dots and identification numbers.

She gasped, leaning in for a closer look. "Wow, that's…those are…"

"Real people in real time. I can see everyone who goes in or out of ze archives."

"Okay, maybe you _are_ a little crazy…or at least kind of scary."

"Ze trouble is I don't know who they are because I could only get so far through ze ship's system. But I did catch one person sitting around in a place called ze 'vault'. Is that somewhere people normally tend to linger?"

"No, not at all. I mean, our lockers are in there, but the vault is more of a storage space, really. Nothing very interesting…unless you count the Restricted Zone."

"Restricted Zone?" Chekov repeated.

"Yeah," she pointed out the area on the screen, "right there. It's a secure space where any potentially dangerous artifacts are kept. Hardly anyone's allowed in and there's no way someone would want to just hang out in a place like that."

"Interesting. Zat isn't exactly where ze person was, but wery, wery close."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean zat they were right here," he indicated the spot immediately outside the schematic's borders, "not even on ze map. And they barely moved ze whole time I was watching."

"Great. So, now we're dealing with a person…or entity, who can apparently phase through walls?"

"I'm not so sure they were phasing through ze wall…"

"How else would you explain it, then?"

"Hidden compartment, maybe?"

"Oho," Briony huffed, "even better."

"There are lots of small, concealed spaces and gaps on ze _Enterprise_ where ze ship's design requires room for access to wiring and pipes and so on. Outside of Engineering, wery few know they exist, but literally anyone could put one to warious uses if they heppened upon it."

Briony's forehead creased with worry. "Well, that's not creepy at all."

"81DD7," Chekov went on. "Do you recognize zat ID number at all? It belongs to our mysterious hovering dot."

"Mmmayyybe. Should I?"

"Hm," he gave the keyboard another tap, "what about this? Does it look familiar?"

The xeno-archaeologist's mouth dropped open. "I don't believe—you _found_ the file?!"

"It took me some time, but—" The rest of Chekov's was lost in the impromptu hug his friend stretched across the tabletop to envelop him in.

"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I thought it was gone forever!"

"N-no…no problem," he gasped as she released him. "Uh…but ze number was on ze file. It was ze one used to access ze system every time ze inwentory was updated. You remember it now, no?"

"Yes…well, vaguely. At the time, I was more concerned about missing artifacts than memorizing ID numbers. It's a lead, though, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's more than zat. This is our smuggler, I'm sure of it. In fact, I think I may hef made contact."

Briony's features paled. "You _what_?"

"Not face-to-face, don't worry." Chekov raised his hands, wiggling his fingers in an animated typing motion. "I went through ze computer and there is no way they will ever know it was me talking to them. Ze important thing is we _do_ hef at least some idea of who they might be, which puts us one step ahead."

Despite her worry, Briony couldn't suppress a grin. "So, if we find the person who belongs to 81DD7…"

"…we find our thief."


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Chekov and Briony spent the next half hour discussing potential strategies for snaring the culprit, none of which involved going through security and none of which were solidified. It wasn't long before she had to get back to work and he decided to return to his quarters to continue generating ideas.

Though the headache was a constant background annoyance, it was now manageable and Chekov was more than ready to be back on the bridge where he belonged. All of this sitting around was making him antsy.

 _One more day_ , he thought, leaning into the wall of the humming lift with his eyes closed and his laptop tucked under one arm. _One more day…_

"Or, we could always, you know, go to the bridge right _now_."

"GAAAH!" Chekov launched into the center of the lift, dropping the laptop and whipping around. "You?!"

"Me," replied a very ornery-looking Matharus. "And _you_ are in deep trouble, kid. Deep, deep trouble."

"I got rid of you! You're not supposed to be able to—"

"And _you're_ not supposed to be able to 'think' me away like that, small human. I said I was here to help you, but nooo, you had to go and make a big deal out of it. You had to make me look like an incompetent idiot in front of the entire Supreme Council. Out of any humiliation I've ever endured over the past millennia, _that_ was the worst!"

"Good!" Chekov spat. "Let's make it double!"

Matharus's eyes flashed and the lift jolted to a stop, throwing the youth to the floor.

"Oh, no. Oh-ho-hooo, no, we are _not_ going through this again." The man glowered, aiming a finger at the thoroughly dazed Chekov. "You have _one_ job and that is to _take us home_ , so that's what you're gonna do! Got it?"

Chekov returned the glare and immediately regretted what came out of his mouth next.

"Make me."

"If you say so."

A fierce, white light and its accompanying shot of pain nearly blinded him, and when Chekov could stand to crack open his eyes, he was alone again. Matharus was gone…?

 _Not so fast, Young One,_ came the familiar voice, only this time from inside his head. _We're just getting started, here. Cooperate and it'll all be over soon enough._

"And if I don't?"

Matharus sighed. _Well, if you insist on making things difficult…_

Chekov shouted as his limbs began to move of their own accord, yanking him upright into a wobbly, zombie-like stance.

"Ay, not fair!"

 _No, what's unfair is living in a tiny sphere for an eon or two, then being_ denied _the one and only chance of escape when it finally comes along. You touched the sphere, now finish what you started._

Matharus lurched the protesting Chekov's legs forward one after the other until he was on the other side of the lift by the control panel.

"I didn't start anything! You are ze one zat zapped my brain!"

 _Come on, hit the button. I don't have all day._

"No!"

 _Ugh, fine, I'll get it._

Chekov's right arm shot out, missing the panel entirely and hitting the solid wall instead.

"Ow!"

 _Oops, my bad. It's been a while since I've had a physical form to work with and I'm kind of rusty. Sheesh, how do you people drive these things, anyway? Let's see, left, right, forward, backward…aha!_

"STOP! LET ME GO!"

Chekov strained, but the consciousness, determined not to let the teen get the better of it this time, was too powerful. There was nothing he could do as Matharus took complete control.

 _Alright,_ Matharus said as the lift came to a stop and the doors opened, _which way is the bridge again?_

"Why…should I…tell you?" grunted Chekov.

 _Oh, that's right, you don't have to_ _tell me anything because, ta-daaa, I live in your head. Okay, hang on…_

Matharus brought him to a stop mid-corridor in front of a couple passing crewmembers, who also paused, unsure about what to make of the lopsided officer standing in their path.

 _Don't be a stranger, young human. We need to look as normal as possible for the moment, so go on, say "hi"_.

Chekov's arm flung itself outward, flailing in the air a few times before dropping back to his side. "Heeyy."

After sharing a confused glance, the two waved hesitantly in return and hurried by.

 _That was pathetic. And I'm talking about you, not them._

Chekov's left eyelid twitched as something inside his brain tingled.

 _Aha! Found the directions. Right next to the stash of transporter calculations the whole time. Wow, you've got a lot of stuff in here. Do you actually use it all?_

"Rrrgh-YES!"

 _Sorry, sorry, stupid question._

…

"I assure you, Grand Minister," Captain Kirk chose his words carefully, "whatever you were told concerning the trade agreement is false, a misunderstanding. The Federation would never allow it to be changed or rescinded in any way without involving you and your people."

The tension on the bridge was thick enough to cut with a knife. The bulbous, purplish-green alien taking up most of the view screen considered Kirk's statement, stroking his feathery, thin mustache with two fingers…or whatever those nubs sticking out of his hands were.

At long last, seeming satisfied, the Grand Minister opened his cavernous mouth to reply, however, at the same time, the lift doors on the right side of the bridge swooshed apart, admitting a newcomer.

"Chekov!" Uhura blurted, standing.

"What's this?" The alien puffed with annoyance. "Why have you allowed one of your younglings—"

"Sh-shut up, frog-man," Chekov stuttered through gritted teeth, causing no small gasp to travel the ranks. As if that weren't enough, he staggered to one of the transparent vertical panels just behind the captain's chair, snatching a stylus from a science officer before shoving him aside. "Move, human! I need to use this!"

"How… _dare_ you!" fumed the Grand Minister.

Chekov was now too occupied with scribbling madly all over the panel to heed his anger, so the alien redirected it to Kirk.

"Never have I been so insulted in all my cycles! The Federation will hear about this, Captain Kirk, mark my words!"

"Wait, no," Kirk said, lunging forward. "There's been some kind of mistake. This crewman is injured and shouldn't be here. Please, just give us a moment to—"

The view screen went blank and a vein throbbed in the captain's temple, betraying the temper bubbling dangerously near the surface. When he spoke next, his words were calm, but cold, sending shivers down the spines of all present.

"Ensign Chekov." He swiveled to face the individual in question, jaw set and eyes hard. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't recall you being on the schedule or having bridge clearance for this shift."

Dropping the stylus, the teen twitched violently. Eyes squeezed shut and gasping, Chekov appeared to be grappling with some inner force. His limbs were stiff, fists clenched and white-knuckled, and the tendons in his neck popped out with extreme exertion. It was a disturbing sight, almost as if he were resisting an urge to move against his will.

"Chekov…?" Kirk repeated, moving toward him in rising concern.

"Captain, I would advise you to approach with caution," Spock warned. "He appears to be under the influence of something other than himself and may be dangerous."

"Thank you, Spock, I'll be fine," he said, wariness seeping into his voice. "Pavel, are you…are you all right—"

Chekov's eyes snapped open. "NO!" he exclaimed. "You can't…make me...d-do this!"

"Chekov, what's going on?" Sulu was on his feet as well. "Nobody's making you do any—"

"Stop! Please!"

"Stop what?"

"Not you!"

"Then who?"

"Lieutenant," Kirk addressed a horror-stricken Uhura without taking his eyes off Chekov, "We may have a serious problem here. Alert medical."

"Y-yes, Captain."

"Keep drawing—I can't just—pick up ze stylus!—no!—are g-g-going whether you like it or not!"

"Going?" asked Kirk warily, coming up beside him. "Going where?"

"HOME. MUST…GET…HOME."

"Home?" Scotty chimed in. "Hate to break it to yeh, laddie, but we're a bit far from Russia—"

"Not Russia, you _stredlosh_!"

Scotty seemed thoroughly confused rather than insulted. "Eh? What did yeh just call me, wee man?"

" _Stredlosh,_ " snapped Chekov. "It means, loosely translated in your inferior language, zat you are an 'idiot'!"

"That...doesn't sound like Russian..." Sulu commented, brow furrowed.

Chekov whirled to face him. "Zat is because it's not! You and all ze other _ginshesh_ on this bridge are _stredlosh_!"

"That's _enough_ , Chekov. Stand down—" Kirk never finished the command.

After releasing an odd growl, Chekov sent an elbow flying into the unexpecting captain's face before he barreled forward, plowing over everyone in his path.

"OW!" Kirk bellowed, eyes watering as he stumbled into the captain's chair, "WHAT THE—CHEKOV, STOP!"

"Wha-hey!"

With a yank, the current ensign serving as navigator was removed from the station's seat, which Chekov assumed immediately, fingers tapping frantically at the screen.

"No! I'm going home and none of you can stop me!"

"Not today!" Backed by Spock and Scotty, Captain Kirk lunged.

With a disturbing, not-quite-human laugh, Chekov ducked nimbly and reappeared at the pilot controls several feet away, pushing buttons and flipping switches as fast as he could.

"NO—!" cried Sulu, but too late.

The _Enterprise_ lurched, groaning and shuddering violently and knocking everyone to the ground. Alarms shrieked and lights flashed as personnel clamored to get back to their stations for damage control.

"WHAT'VE YEH DONE TO ME SHIP?!" First to recover, Scotty caught Chekov under the arms as soon as he was upright, hauling him backwards into a tight hold. "Yeh can insult me all yeh want, but yeh cannae mess aboot with the _Enterprise_ and no' expect me to do somethin'—"

"Careful, Scotty!" Kirk shouted, afraid that the enraged engineer might actually snap the boy in half. Scrambling to his knees, he pressed the comm link on the arm of the captain's chair. "Bones, wherever you are, GET UP HERE, _NOW_!"

"LET GO!" Chekov put up an incredible struggle, kicking and punching in every direction. "You don't know who you are dealing with!"

"Ah, I don't do I? We'll just see aboot tha'!"

"I hef lots of friends! Thousands! I belong to a highly adwanced species and I can crush you all with my mind! _Zek niccu stebrac gerch!_ "

"Chekov, what are you _talking_ —Agh!" Sulu attempted to catch a leg and caught a powerful smack to the jaw instead.

Chekov's next move was to sink his teeth into the arm of the chief engineer, causing the man to release both him and a harsh Scottish phrase that didn't belong in civil conversation, let alone the bridge.

"He bit me! HE BIT ME! The lad's gone _mental_!"

The navigator-turned-renegade wasn't finished yet. Dodging capture at every turn and somehow procuring a crewmember's sidearm along the way, he vaulted over the helm.

"NOBODY MOVE!"

All except the alarms fell into stunned silence. Panting, out of uniform, wild-eyed and with feet planted firmly apart, their once mild-mannered and good-natured navigator stood before them brandishing a weapon and looking desperate.

It was a flustered McCoy rushing onto the scene who voiced aloud what everyone else was thinking.

"What in the _Samhill_ —?!"

"Chekov," though breathing heavily, Kirk's voice was low with warning, "put…the phaser…down."

"Not heppening! I hef waited far too long for this and...and...you wouldn't understand, anyway."

"Try me."

"I—you—Keptin—" He was interrupted by an intense spasm, after which he appeared suddenly terrified. "H-HELP! I d-d-don't want to do this! HELP...ME!"

The shaking phaser was now aimed directly between Kirk's unblinking eyes.

"We're _trying_ , Pavel, but you've left us no choice. You're not going to like what's about to happen. I'm sorry."

Like a wraith, a hand emerged from the shadows behind Chekov. The fingers aligned themselves with the weakest points of a certain vulnerable nerve running from neck to shoulder…

"What do you mean I am not going to- _hrghk_ —!" Chekov gurgled and went rigid as the digits pressed quickly and deeply into the nerve. Back arching as if he had taken a severe shock right down the spine, he collapsed.

…

Briony was not convinced in the slightest that Chekov had been completely truthful with her. There was something more than exhaustion going on beneath the young man's haggard appearance, something serious that weighed heavily on his mind to the point of fear. It hadn't been difficult to decipher that much through his unusual mood and actions alone. Now, the obvious question was what could her friend possibly be hiding that would cause him so much distress?

She was fine with the fact that he may not want to tell her specifically. He did, after all, have other friends aboard the _Enterprise_ , many of which were closer and therefore better able to understand and help him. And it wasn't that she doubted their mutual trust (as much trust as two people can share having only been acquainted a couple of days), it was more along the lines of worrying over why he was acting so strangely.

Pavel had been close to telling her back at the mess hall, what else was she supposed to do besides wonder what he might have said, what she might have been able to offer help with or advice on? She could only hope that he would either successfully solve the issue on his own or that he would eventually clue her in. Luckily, Briony was naturally gifted with patience. She could wait for when he was ready, and when that time came—if ever—she was willing and prepared to assist in any way she could, just like he had done so selflessly for her.

In the meantime, her main concern became the mandala Chekov had drawn on the napkin. The mandala itself wasn't that strange—she must have come across dozens over years of research and digs, all much more impressive and intricate than this one. No, it was more about how he'd reacted to it, how surprised he'd been to see what he'd drawn, how reluctant he'd been to give it to her. If she could remember where she'd seen it before, maybe she could find an answer or two.

"Dr. Sylar," she said upon arriving at the lab with the napkin in hand.

He looked up from his work, smiling when he saw who it was. "Ah, hello, Briony. And how was your break with Ensign Chekov?"

"Fine," she replied, still frowning at the drawing.

"I see you brought us back a…uh, souvenir…" Dr. Sylar sounded bemused. "Odd choice of memento to keep from a lunch break. It must have been memorable."

"It was." Briony held it out for him to see. "And it's not a memento. Have you seen this mandala before?"

Eyebrows furrowing, Dr. Sylar came over to take the napkin from her, studying it carefully.

"Did you draw this?"

"No, Chekov did."

The man's eyes widened slightly. "Did he, now? How interesting…"

"Yeah, it was...weird. We were talking and then he randomly picked up my pen and started drawing, almost subconsciously."

"May I inquire as to the topic of conversation at the time?"

"Well, we were just…talking about…" Briony shuffled a bit, "he was telling me about what it's like to work on the bridge as a navigator. Constellations, stellar cartography, those kinds of things."

Dr. Sylar seemed doubtful, however, he didn't question her further. "I see," he said, brushing past her for the exit. "Come with me."

Curious, Briony trailed behind her senior, quickly recognizing their route as the one to the vault. The vault was more or less a large storage area housing everything from artifacts too large to be stored anywhere else to unused or extra equipment. At the very back was a secure space sectioned off from the rest of the room with tall glass panels. This was the Restricted Zone, where the department's more dangerous discoveries were kept.

Dr. Sylar entered a code into the touchpad and stepped inside the transparent fence, hustling her in after him. Briony had become familiar with the vault over the past few weeks, but until now she'd never had an excuse to venture into the Restricted Zone.

The Restricted Zone…

A brief playback of the talk she and Chekov had just had ran through her mind, pausing at the part where he showed her the schematics. Somewhere just outside of this room, a pair of unfriendly eyes could be watching her from a slit in the wall, following her movements, plotting her demise.

"Here, put these on."

A shiver traveled through her as she was handed a white coverall suit, safety goggles and thick gloves.

"Nothing to be afraid of, my dear," the doctor reassured, stepping into his own suit, "simply precautionary protocol."

"Precautionary? Against what?"

He didn't reply, which did nothing to curb Briony's uneasiness, and waited patiently for her to suit up. When she finished, he motioned and she followed him wordlessly to the room's entrance at the far end of the fence. After entering another code, the heavy door hissed and clicked, swinging open. She trailed behind him down one of several walkways lined from top to bottom with heavy-duty crates, all of which contained who-knew-what kind of deadly objects awaiting study. It was only fitting, she guessed, for the artifact that had nearly killed her friend to end up in here.

Yes, Briony knew the sphere was what they were looking for. She'd had a hunch beforehand, and as soon as Dr. Sylar had gone in the direction of the vaults, she was certain.

"Here we are," he breathed, removing a container from its nest on a shelf.

Briony watched him pop it open, cringing when he reached inside and lifted out the small, metallic sphere. She relaxed a little at the stunning lack of electricity in any form and moved in closer as Dr. Sylar held the inked mandala next to it to compare.

Although she now remembered catching glimpses of the thing here and there since transferring to the _Enterprise_ , she hadn't been able to get a good look at it before it was whisked away on the night of the near-fatal incident. Atop the sphere was a raised, interlocking pattern. Broken into several shifting pieces like a puzzle waiting to be solved, it occurred to Briony just how enticing it must have appeared to someone with a mind like Chekov's. It was no wonder he couldn't resist touching it.

"Interesting," Dr. Sylar muttered.

"What? What's interesting?"

He shifted to allow her a better view. "As far as I can recall, the individual pieces of the lock weren't in this formation when we first encountered the artifact a few months ago."

"You mean…they've _moved_?"

"Precisely. Now, tell me, Briony," he raised the sphere toward the cool light, "what do you think this lock would look like if someone were to complete the puzzle?"

"No way," she breathed taking the napkin from the man's fingers. "But then that must mean—"

At that moment, the ship jerked violently, knocking the two archaeologists and the sphere to the floor. The crash of equipment, crates and other loose gear in the vault outside was followed by a blackout. Dazed, Briony could do nothing but lie flat on her back for several moments, listening to the clamoring alarms and the shouts of those rushing to heed them.

"Briony?" came Dr. Sylar's voice from her right. "Briony, are you all right?"

"Ah...ow...y-yeah, I think so." Wincing, she pushed herself up and accepted his hand. "What _was_ that? Did something hit us?"

"Probably too early for anyone not on the bridge to know, but I'm sure we'll find out soon."

Scooping up the sphere, Dr. Sylar quickly made his way out of the restricted zone and Briony was only too happy to follow. The place gave her the creeps something awful and the effect was ten times as potent in the dark. The tight knot of anxiety in her chest loosened a bit as they reemerged in the main vault. The lighting was dim and flickering at best, but it was a far cry from pitch darkness—

A pained moan rose like a ghost from nearby the row of lockers along one wall. After exchanging a brief apprehensive look, Briony and Sylar both rushed to help whoever had been caught in the path of the dislodged jumble of heavy odds and ends.

"Schvaneveldt!" Briony gasped, kneeling beside her fallen colleague and removing some of the debris. The man beneath was bleeding and barely conscious, but alive.

Dr. Sylar turned and dashed for the nearest comms panel. "I'll call medical!"

It was happening again. For the second time this week, she felt the nausea, the welling tears, her rising pulse…

"Wh-what do I—how do I—"

"Stay there! Talk to him!"

"B-But I—"

"Just _do_ it!"

"Okay, okay," she panted, taking her coworker's face in her hands. "S-Swannie, can you hear me?"

The nickname usually triggered a sharp reaction, but all she got in reply this time was another groan.

"Oh—oh, no, hang on, you're gonna be okay!" Briony forced the waver out of her voice as she cleared away more rubble. "C'mon, stay with me, you're…"

She ground to a halt.

Scattered among the clutter on the floor were what appeared to be the remains of several artifacts. Familiar artifacts that should have been stored safely in their collections in the archives. What were they doing out here?

Looking to the left, she found the answer. On the floor was a broken crate and spilling out of it were about a dozen more priceless relics.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

A slight stirring brought Dr. McCoy to his patient's bedside equipped with a tricorder and a penlight. Carefully, as he had done countless times over the last two hours, he spread apart each pair of the boy's eyelids in turn, shining the light directly on the pupils underneath. Unlike every previous test, however, this one got a reaction.

With a grunt of protest, the young man twitched, squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. McCoy nudged it back into place and proceeded with the light, but Chekov was apparently having no more of this. Mumbling, he again attempted escape by rolling his head to the side.

The renegade navigator was on his way back to consciousness, which was reassuring in terms of recovery, yet disheartening now that he would have to reconcile with the truth about why he was here in the first place. Barely eighteen, Chekov faced charges better suited for a seasoned criminal, possibly a mediocre terrorist.

 _"K-keryptha...th...thr'od..."_ he slurred, eyes still closed. _"Noek u ysma'ats."_

"Sorry, kid, I don't have the faintest inkling what you're trying to tell me," Dr. McCoy checked the monitor above the bed, "but that definitely isn't Russian. Either way, I don't speak a lick of any of it. Mind running that by me again in Standard?"

The teen's features contorted with intense concentration, as if he were trying to remember what Standard even was let alone how to use it.

"Wh…where'm I?"

It was more of a mumble than a question, but it happened to be on the list of mumbles the doctor heard all too often in his line of work, so the answer was automatic.

"Medbay."

The doctor watched him swim into a hazy consciousness and, with visibly mounting anxiety and discomfort, open his eyes to discover himself in a white and fiercely sterile partitioned room. Attired in the equally sterile pajama-like garb of a medbay patient, he was lying propped partway up with monitors all around, a couple of wires attached to each of his temples, and an IV line feeding into one arm. That arm, along with the rest of his limbs and even his chest, were strapped firmly to the biobed.

Chekov gave the restraints a pull and his pulse on the monitors picked up speed.

"I c-can't move…"

 _Hoo boy, here we go._ McCoy hadn't expected any different response, but suddenly realized he'd been dreading this moment. The moment where _he_ had to be the one to refresh Chekov's memory and drop the bad news.

"That's the point," Dr. McCoy replied dryly. "You're not thinking straight. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're thinking in every direction _except_ straight. And the drugs aren't doing you any favors right now, that's for sure."

As anticipated, this did nothing to calm the navigator and he squirmed.

"All right, all right, simmer down—"

"Doctor McCoy, what is going—why am I—I can't _move_!"

"I know, Chekov, and I'm sorry, but it's a necessary safety—"

The squirms escalated into full-on struggling panic. "'Necessary'?! Why is this—please let me go!"

"No can do. Listen to me, kid, you need to stop this or I'll—"

"Is zat a hypo? Zat is a _hypo_! Let me go! You hef to let me—"

"Actually, no, I don't, so you might as well—"

"HELP! SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE! HE HAS A HYPO AND I'M BEING HELD AGAINST MY—"

"Oh, for the love—you have _got_ to settle down!" McCoy hissed, rushing to clamp a hand over Chekov's mouth. "There are people in this place trying to sleep—sick people—and the last thing they need is you raising Hell like you're being tortured!"

He lifted his hand…

"But I _am_ being—" Chekov started.

…and immediately put it back.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," McCoy grumbled, "but you just might be worse coming out of sedatives than Jim. You are _not_ being tortured and you are _not_ leaving this room until I find out what's wrong with you and how to fix it. Stop. Shouting."

Chekov glared.

"And don't you dare bite me or I _will_ use the hypo."

Dr. McCoy waited a moment before releasing him, just in case.

"Why am I here and why am I being restrained?" asked the teen the moment he was free.

"You mean, you don't remember?"

"No."

"Huh, well, you'd think it would be pretty hard for a guy who singlehandedly tried to hijack a starship to forget about it so quickly."

His patient's face drained of color. "I… _what_?"

"At phaserpoint," McCoy tacked on for emphasis. "I was there for that part."

"Ayy, no," Chekov moaned after a lengthy, stunned silence. "Ay-yi-yi, Matharus, you didn't…"

A little red warning light—the one most often reserved for when Kirk or Spock (or both) were about to do something insufferably stupid—flicked on inside the chief medical officer's head.

"Ma- _who_ -us?" he asked, picking up the PADD containing Chekov's file. He had a feeling it was about to get a lot bigger and much more interesting, so he might as well have it handy

"Uh…" the ensign backpedaled, "d-did I say—"

"Yes, you did. Who's 'Matharus'?"

Cornered, Chekov aggressively chewed a lip.

"Listen, you're in serious hot water and no position to be hiding anything. You're lucky I still need to finish running full diagnostics on you, otherwise you'd be sitting in the brig right now."

The boy gulped, but said nothing.

"The readouts coming from your brain are like nothing I've ever seen before. Peaks and valleys off the chart and fireworks all over the place. It's a wonder you've even managed to regain consciousness."

"F-fire…works?"

"You tried to take over a Federation starship, Chekov," Dr. McCoy clarified, brandishing the PADD. "Not just any Federation star ship. The flagship. _By yourself_. No one, especially _you_ , would even _think_ of doing something that stupid unless there were a few wires crossed in there."

"B-but I told you, I can't remember anything! A-and what would I even do with ze _Enterprise_ , anyway?!"

"There are about ten to fifteen witnesses, including myself, who're wondering the same thing."

"I—but _how_?!"

"I got there after most of the action went down, but from what I hear—and what I saw—you put on quite the show. Stormed onto the bridge in a rage, smacked the captain in the face, bit Scotty, almost broke Sulu's jaw _and_ the ship itself…"

"It wasn't me, I swear! It couldn't hef—"

"If it wasn't you, they sure fooled me."

"Maybe it just... _looked_ like me."

"Well, this is going downhill fast." Dr. McCoy, rubbed his forehead and heaved a sigh. "Of course. Your long-lost evil twin, then?"

The teen fidgeted, visibly desperate to escape interrogation and knowing full well he wasn't going anywhere.

"M-Matharus."

"Oh, him again. And just how did Matharus, whoever he is, create such an amazingly convincing illusion of you wreaking havoc across the bridge?"

Chekov closed his eyes and drew in a breath, looking as if he were about to spill on the crime of the century.

"Matharus...Matharus is a consciousness...who lives in my head and represents ze last of a highly adwanced race of people who hef chosen me to return them to their ancestral planet. Um...he took over my mind and...must hef forced me to try to hijack ze _Enterprise_...?"

The doctor paused to lift an eyebrow before swiveling to frown at the monitor once more.

"Get comfortable, kid. You're gonna be here a while."

…

The galaxy was a big place full of differing opinions and fluctuating tempers and not everyone saw eye-to-eye with the ideals of the Federation. That being said, Captain Kirk was accustomed to having the crap kicked out of him every once in a while.

In fact, just a few months prior, in a single day he'd been involved in a precarious skirmish with a gang of Romulan thugs atop a space drill platform about five miles above the surface of Vulcan, picked a fight with an angry Spock (twice), and taken on the crew and captain of a Romulan mining vessel bent on destroying earth. Before that, he'd had a few tiffs at the Academy, and numerous bar, back alley and schoolyard brawls before joining Starfleet and putting his restless energy to a more constructive use.

When he was promoted and given his own ship to command, he knew there would still be the occasional scrap or two, although he was now much more likely to ask questions rather than shoot first. However, in this particular situation, it seemed that questions were all he was going to get. It had never occurred to him that he might someday be randomly attacked by one of his own, especially when that person was a young, brilliant and usually friendly navigator.

Not everyone in his line of work was suddenly forced to handle the aftermath of a teen prodigy's crazy but not quite voluntary attempt at a hijacking. Fortunately, Kirk wasn't just "everyone". Improvising on-the-fly was a sort of gift and one of many reasons he was now the youngest active captain in Starfleet history. Better yet, he didn't have to take on this problem alone. He was surrounded by the top of the top, the best and the brightest Starfleet had to offer, most of whom he'd quickly grown to consider his closest friends—no, his _family_. And, as a family, they shared a significant bond that couldn't be severed easily. Together, they would figure this out, just like they always did.

But that wasn't possible until they had somewhere to start.

So, what could have snapped inside that kid's head to lead to that bizarre showdown on the bridge? What had driven him to all-out madness? Why was Kirk now on his way to oversee the preliminary investigation of Chekov's quarters with one watering, smarting eye starting to swell?

"Captain," a security officer greeted him as he approached the entrance. "Sir, you really need to see this."

The urgency behind the officer's words and his grave expression promised nothing good, and Kirk found himself almost reluctant to follow. Nevertheless, duty—and more importantly, concern for a comrade—called.

Although he knew it was for the best, crossing the threshold into Chekov's quarters gave Kirk a shot of guilt, as if he were betraying the boy's trust. Maybe more like an older brother invading a sibling's personal space. At first glance, the neutral beige walls and standard issue furniture made it seem like any other officers' lodgings one might find aboard a starship. But within seconds, it was apparent he'd entered not just anyone's quarters, but the lair of a teenager. And furthermore, not just any teenager. Lingering adolescence fused seamlessly with pure genius, resulting in some interesting interior decorating. Posters plastered the walls, the faces of admired scientists and ancient star charts scattered among popular movie and music memorabilia. A heap of clothes took up the floor in front of a pair of overstuffed but meticulously organized bookcases. A prized science trophy was on display next to a pile of retro comics. A basketball shared a corner with a well-used chess table. A Russian flag proudly graced the wall above the head of the bed…

They caught Kirk's eye before the security officer could point them out. Just below the flag, in stark contrast to the atmosphere of the rest of the place, a series of jagged gouges marred the once smooth wall. They were deep and sporadic. One might even say frantic.

But, they couldn't possibly be the work of a teenager in his right mind, genius or not…could they?

…

Miserable.

That was the only term that came close to describing Chekov's current mood. It had been about thirty minutes since Dr. McCoy left possibly knowing more about the inside of the boy's head than even he did, which just didn't seem fair. Not only that, but he could hear the aftermath of the chaos he'd inadvertently created. Medical personnel rushed by his partition, ushering the incoming flow of patients. As far as Chekov had been able to gather, there were only a couple serious injuries among them and the rest were varying degrees of scrapes and bruises.

This was his fault. He had no memory of how exactly he'd done it, but he was the one who had hurt these people—several of them, like Sulu and Scotty, close friends. He was responsible for every single cut, concussion and cracked bone that now needed repairing, all because he couldn't keep his hands off a chunk of metal with an intriguing design on the top.

"Chekov? Oh…"

The quiet voice pulled him back to the present and he opened his eyes to see Briony standing in the doorway. Her usually cheerful demeanor was dampened by a shroud of worry. He could see it in her eyes, which widened as she entered the room. Keeping her distance, she skirted the wall, taking shelter in a corner.

Chekov shifted, growing more uncomfortable with every second she spent gawking at him. He hated that she was seeing him at his worst. He hated the warmth of humiliation spreading through his cheeks. He hated that he was strapped to a bed and plugged into machines. He hated that he couldn't remember how he'd ended up like this in the first place and had no answers to give to anyone, including himself.

"Yes," she said after an awkward moment. "The answer's yes."

"What?"

"I think you're crazy."

He groaned. "You came all ze way here just to tell me zat?"

"Actually, I came all the way here for a couple reasons, which I'll get to shortly—but keep in mind I'm sort of terrified of you right now."

Judging by the doctor's account, she had good reason to be. Chekov had nothing to say in his defense.

"Anyway, um...the first is to say 'thank you' for everything you did to help me. Our thief has been caught."

"What?"

"Schvaneveldt, also known as 81DD7, saved us the trouble of a long search and got himself arrested. Um, make that he _will_ be arrested as soon as he's out of sickbay. Dr. Sylar and I found him buried under a pile of junk in the vault. He'd apparently been in the act of stashing more artifacts in his locker when whatever you did to the ship knocked him flat."

His stomach clenched. "You know I was ze one who—"

Briony lifted an eyebrow. "Everyone knows that was you, now, Chekov. Kind of hard to attempt a starship hijacking without being noticed."

"Wh-what about ze wall in ze Restricted Zone?" Chekov asked quickly, hoping to avoid any further discussion on his earlier escapade. "Anything new on zat?"

"I…haven't told anyone yet. I'm afraid that if I do, you'll get in trouble for hacking the system and breaching security. And...well, you have enough trouble as it is."

"We are going to hef to tell someone ewentually…"

Briony shuffled, eyes on the ground. "Yeah. I guess you're right. But for now, I'm just happy that it's over."

While Chekov shared her sentiment, he couldn't help thinking the conclusion of this case seemed a bit premature.

"And that brings me to the second reason I'm here." She pulled in a breath. "I don't believe the Pavel Chekov I met a few days ago would ever pull a stunt like attempting a solo hostile takeover of the bridge."

So much for avoiding further discussion.

"No one else can believe it either," Chekov muttered.

"No, no, I mean, I don't believe you're at fault for what happened."

Lost for words, he stared at her. If she was implying what he thought she was implying…

"The mandala," she said, "the one you drew on the napkin a few hours ago. It matches the design on the artifact that tried to kill you, or it would if the pieces of the puzzle were put together."

Of course it did. Why else would he be scratching it into walls in his sleep and drawing it on napkins without realizing it? He hadn't gotten a decent look at the sphere the night it fried his brain, but now that Briony brought it up, its significance made complete sense.

"Something happened to you when you touched it," she went on. "That was more than just a bolt of electricity to the head you got the other day, wasn't it? You're…you're connected to it somehow."

Chekov nodded, but otherwise remained silent.

"Look, I realize we've only just met, and this might sound weird or stupid, but I feel like I can help you, both as a friend and a xeno-archaeologist." Briony approached the bed cautiously, hands clasped. "I thought that if—together—we can discover the purpose of the sphere, then maybe we'll get some answers. Deadly or not, it's still an artifact and studying artifacts is what I do every day."

Any lasting hope Chekov had been harboring quickly abandoned ship and vanished into outer space. He already knew the purpose of the sphere all too well. He already knew more about it than any xeno-archaeologist could ever hope to in a lifetime. Even if he could convince Briony that his story was true, there wasn't a lot she could do about it.

On the other hand, what else did he have to lose?

"I…I should get back to the lab to clean up." Briony turned, a hint of disappointment tainting her words. "I'm sorry, I just…I just wanted to help you like you helped me."

"Ze sphere…" Chekov blurted, partly because he didn't want to be left alone again, but mostly because he couldn't let the one person who might be his only ally walk out the door.

It worked. She paused, facing him expectantly.

"Ze night we were talking in my quarters…a few hours after you left, I fell asleep or passed out or something and I had a dream…or a wision."

That got her attention.

"I was in a cave, woices all around me, too many to count," he related rapidly. "They told me they were ze last of their race, preserved inside ze sphere, which they called a 'Wessel'…"

"A what?"

"Wwvessel," Chekov grunted in frustration. This was not the time for language gaffes. "A wvvessel!"

"Oh, vessel! You're saying 'vessel'."

" _Da_ , yes! Ze long story shortened, I hef been chosen by these people to be their guardian and return them home. Ze catch is zat they are all…well, they are all living inside my head right now."

They sat in silence while Briony processed and Chekov prayed that she wouldn't abandon him as a lost cause. He tasted blood, only then realizing he'd gnawed the inside of his lip raw had to force himself to stop.

"This is…this is remarkable," Briony breathed at last. "So, when you touched the sphere, you literally _became_ the 'Vessel'."

"Wait," Chekov said once the initial shock wore off and he remembered how to make words, "you…you _believe_ me?"

"Is there any reason I shouldn't?"

"No! No, not at all! I'm just..."

"Surprised?"

"Y-yes. Wery much so."

"I told you I would help you, Just Pavel. I'm not about to write you off as a hopeless case yet."

That was much more encouraging than anything Dr. McCoy had said to him—not that Dr. McCoy was the outwardly encouraging type to begin with.

"Can you help me?"

She became occupied with her own thoughts for several moments. "You and I both know that any lifeform, no matter its physical state, has basic needs, and the strongest ones—the smartest ones—will always find a way to survive." Surprisingly, she gave him a smile. "That's where all the greatest stories come from. That's why I became an archaeologist."

"Is zat a 'yes'?"

"I'm almost _certain_ I've heard of a case like this, a consciousness or being taking a host and using them to achieve their own ends."

"Like hijacking a starship to go home?"

"That kind of thing would be extremely rare, but, bizarre as it sounds…yeah, exactly like that." She began to pace, prattling and gesturing animatedly as she did. "I'll have to comb the ship's database, of course, possibly a few others if I can manage to download them this far out of range, but I've _got_ to find somewhere to start. Hm, maybe I should try Rachel back at the Academy? She might have a reference or a tip—"

"So, it _is_ a yes."

"Yes! Definitely yes. I'll just need a little time..."

"How much?"

She teetered on the tips of her toes, adjusting the glasses. "Enough to dig up a solid alibi that will keep you from being court-martialed."

Chekov cringed inwardly. In the deepest pit of his stomach, he knew it was a likely consequence, but hearing it out loud…

"And after we prove I'm not insane," he rushed past that thought, "we can work on getting all ze people out of my head."

Briony choked on a giggle. "Okay, I'm so sorry, but if you weren't already strapped to a bed—"

"Ayy, please don't finish zat," moaned Chekov.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Briony could barely stutter an unnecessary "don't go anywhere" and a promise of doing everything within her "archaeological power" to help him out of his predicament before darting from the room. With a friend on his side, Chekov now felt the slightest bit more hopeful, more secure. He felt like he stood a chance of saving his relationships, his sanity, his career, everything he had worked his entire life for, young as he was.

Mere moments after her exit, Dr. McCoy paid a less-than-cheerful visit to run another set of scans and deliver a few salty opinions on various aspects of Chekov's condition. Personally, Chekov found it all annoying and useless, but knew better than to tell that to the man himself.

Now, finally, he was alone again.

Or…was he?

"So much for not ending up in the psych ward."

Somehow, Chekov wasn't too surprised by the return of the familiar, deep voice. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to the left, finding a very different version of Matharus—docile and genuinely apologetic—perched atop a counter.

"You hef ze _worst_ of timings."

"Young One, I'm here to apologize—no," Matharus hung his head, "I'm here to beg your forgiveness."

"Ha! No _way_ ," Chekov snorted. "And you can stop calling me 'Young One'. You're in my head, you know my name."

"I-I know we're not exactly on the best of terms right now…but please, at least listen to me. I panicked and lost my head—"

"No, you lost _my_ head."

Matharus had to think about that one. "Yes...yes, good point, but what I'm trying to say is that I made a terrible mistake. I was sore and humiliated about how you made me disappear and I completely lost control. This is my fault…"

"And you told me your people are an adwanced race."

"Advanced, yes. Perfect? Sadly, no, although we do try." He sighed heavily. "You're a human. You of all species should understand that people do stupid things when they're upset."

"Stupid?" The ensign's words were sharp with anger and he tugged at the restraints, wishing he could miraculously break free and throttle the man…or at least that's what he _would_ do if it were possible to throttle a figment of his mind. " _Stupid_?! You possessed me and made me try to hijack a starship! You made me hurt my friends and basically destroyed my _entire_ life in a matter of a few minutes. Everyone I know is conwinced I'm unstable and dangerous, and I'm headed for a court-martial to be tried for a crime I can't even remember committing!"

"Well, if they find you competent to stand trial, you mean—"

"Not. Helping."

"Right, sorry…"

A tense silence dropped between them and Matharus descended from the countertop slowly. Scowling, Chekov watched him float around to the foot of the biobed with eyes averted and proverbial tail between legs.

"You have a strong mind," he said quietly. "Much, much stronger and more complex than any of us thought possible in a fledgling species like yours. I believe we've greatly underestimated you."

Chekov cooled slightly at what he assumed to be a compliment, though he said nothing.

"Yes, it's true we've been around a lot longer than you, and yes, we're advanced beyond anything you can comprehend at this point in your development, but even the most intelligent beings need a leg up every once in a while."

"So, why me?"

"The Vessel was designed to sense and assess the value of any being it comes into contact with. It wouldn't have chosen you if you weren't worthy or capable of the task."

"But zat is insane! How can I _possibly_ help you? I'm just…just an inferior, mentally fragile human."

"To be blunt, you have no choice. The fate of every consciousness you hold in your mind, including mine, is bound to yours. Our very existence depends on you—the Host, our Guardian—and if you fail to complete the task, we will be trapped inside you for the rest of your life."

The words slammed into Chekov with enough force to make his head reel and his stomach plummet.

"However long that life may be, I should add," Matharus continued gravely. "Even though it may be strong, your mind isn't made for long-term storage of whole civilizations. Eventually, the mental strain will become too much and it will...it will _kill_ you. In fact, you're already showing signs of…"

Chekov's throat tightened. "Signs of what?"

"Well, let's just say we're running out of time. Quickly."

He allowed the paling, overwhelmed boy a moment to comprehend.

"I…I should never hef touched ze sphere…"

Matharus quirked his head in agreement. "Maybe not, but you did. You heard the call. You answered it. You can't turn back."

Tears stung at Chekov's eyes, welling over as a small, terrified noise became strangled in his throat.

"I did not ask for this to heppen…" he choked out after a shaky pause.

"Those who find themselves thrown into a position of great responsibility rarely do. But if it's of any consolation, I do believe you were chosen for a reason, Young One."

"No, you mean I was chosen to die. I was chosen because I was ze most suitable host to achieve your ends, to take you where you want to go and then be disposed of."

"I assure you, that has never been and never will be our intention."

"Oh, really? Then what would you call zat little incident up on ze bridge?"

"Like I said, a mistake. But I am sworn by the Council—which, by the way, gave me the chastisement of a lifetime (our lifetime, not yours)—to be your liaison and guide. I'm still here to help you."

"And how are you supposed to help me? You live in my head."

"Ah, that's the fun part." Matharus folded his arms, a mischievous smile flickering on his lips.

"Fun…?"

"Of course! Between your brains and my charming good looks, we could be unstoppable! In fact, I don't think there's anything we _couldn't_ do, including getting us home and out of your mind. _But_ ," he waggled a finger, "the catch is we have to work together, which means _you_ don't make me disappear and _I_ don't possess you."

Wary and upset as he was, Chekov couldn't deny that this was probably the best option either of them had. It may not be the safest or the smartest, but it was definitely a chance, which was more than he'd started out with that morning.

"So, what do you say, Young One? Truce?"

"Truce. And don't call me 'Young One' anymore."

…

"I don't get it." Uhura's forehead was frozen in that telltale crease that showed up whenever she was intently focused or upset. "Of all the people to randomly snap…why Chekov? It doesn't add up any way you look at it."

The senior staff—minus one—were all present in the conference room, a few looking a little worse for wear, even though some time had passed between now and the strange episode on the bridge. Captain Kirk slumped back in his seat holding an icepack to aching black eye. Across from him, Sulu leaned into the conference room table, an ice pack of his own pressed against his jaw. It wasn't broken, thankfully, but that shoe imprint would probably be there a while. Scotty sat next to the pilot, occupied with the set of round red bite marks on his arm, his expression an amalgamation of confusion and mild disgust.

"Honestly," Kirk mumbled, "I always thought it would be Bones, but—"

Right on cue, Dr. McCoy marched through the door without fanfare. "Well, the kid's conscious and talking now."

"Talking?" Kirk straightened a little. "About…?"

"You tell me. At first I couldn't understand a word he was saying."

"Sounds pretty typical of the wee man t'me," Scotty put in.

"No, not typical. Nonsense. Soon as he was awake, he started spouting absolute gibberish. Now, I'm no linguist, but I know Chekov and he _wasn't_ speaking Russian. At least any version I've ever heard. On that note, I'll get straight to the point and say he wasn't too happy about waking up strapped to a biobed."

"Who would be?" Sulu snorted.

"Claims to have no memory of the incident and blames an imaginary man named…named 'Mathias', or something, for possessing and forcing him into the hijacking."

The captain grunted, kneading a finger into a temple. "Well, this just keeps getting better, doesn't it?"

"It'll probably get worse before we're through. Just a hunch."

And there was that classic McCoy pessimism shining through as usual.

"What can we do to help?" Uhura was alert and on the edge of her seat, looking more than determined to tackle the problem head-on by herself if necessary.

"Not much," the doctor replied, "aside from filling me in on his behavior leading up to this. You've all been around him more than I have the past few days. Has he shown any uncharacteristic signs of paranoia? Nervousness? Twitching? Said or done anything out of the ordinary?"

Scotty lifted a finger. "Aye, the captain and I ran inta the lad this mornin' on the lift. Seemed a bit tetchy. Almost, eh…desperate, I'd say. And he told us he was headin' for the archives to do research."

Dr. McCoy's brow furrowed. "Research? On what? And what was he doing out of his quarters? I specifically—"

"He told us he was bored," Kirk said, "then mentioned having some kind of problem he needed to fix just before he bolted."

There was murder in the chief medical officer's eyes as he turned to face Kirk. "You let him _run away_ after he told you _that_?! Why didn't you _stop_ him, for the love of—"

"How were we supposed to know he was about to go renegade? It's Chekov! Everybody on this ship knows he's always got some project or another going in his spare time. Why should this have been any different?"

"The kid had just suffered a traumatic injury! You were there when he woke up. Are you _blind_?"

Uhura cut smoothly into what might have become an argument. "I'm not sure this counts as out of the ordinary, but I _have_ noticed him with a member of the xeno-archaeology team recently. I don't know who she is off the top of my head, but I saw them talking on the observation deck a few nights ago. I've overheard others saying they've caught glimpses of the two together several times since then."

"Been eavesdroppin' a bit, eh, lass?"

"No, just paying attention. I can hear a lot of things most people can't whether I want to or not."

"Aah, whoa, hold on," Kirk said, feeling slower and dimmer with every new shot of information, "are you saying Chekov's lost his mind…over a _girl_?"

Uhura rolled her eyes. "I'm _saying_ maybe this girl can help us put the pieces together. You said Pavel was on his way to the archives when you met him on the lift, didn't you?"

"Aye," Scotty answered. "Tha' we did."

"The xeno-archaeology lab is located in the archives."

"Hm." Scowling, Dr. McCoy folded his arms. "That's exactly where he got himself electrocuted, too. And this young lady, she was the one that called for a team. Downright hysterical."

"Waitwaitwait," the captain waved his hands. "I have a really nasty headache coming on and I'm not sure I'm following all of this. So, just to recap, Chekov started acting a little... _odd_ the day of the accident, which occurred in the xeno-archaeology lab where this girl he's been hanging around with works."

"Right."

"And between then and now, something which may or may not be related to said girl and accident sets him off, he attacks the bridge saying he wants to go home, then wakes up speaking in tongues and swears a guy named 'Mathias' made him do it…even though he can't remember anything?"

"Right. Although, it might have been 'Matharus', actually."

Kirk sighed after several moments of contemplation. "I knew we'd run into some crazy stuff out here, but…" he trailed. "Why don't they have training for these kinds of situations? I don't remember any simulations back at the Academy involving a teenaged Russian genius-turned-psycho trying to carry out a really shoddy coup on the bridge."

"Ha, maybe we should send a memo or something…" Sulu put in.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," snorted Uhura.

"While you're at it, don't forget to ask about starting up a class on how to fix a starship after the teenaged Russian genius-turned-psycho nearly cripples it using nothing but his mind."

Kirk decided he might as well take advantage of this turning point, however sarcastic it was meant to be.

"Speaking of which, how're things looking in your territory, Scotty?"

The engineer huffed. "I cannae understand how he did et, but the lad blew ou' two o'the compressor rigs beneath the dilithium chamber, sent a few secondary systems in the main computer into a raging fit, and torched a good bit o' cable to boot."

Torched? What do you mean?"

"Aye. Burned nearly to a nice crisp."

Captain Kirk almost dreaded asking. "Fixable?"

Eyes averted, Scotty let out a slow breath through pursed lips before answering. "Ah…aye, Captain. I mean, it'll take a day, maybe two. As far as I know, nothin' else was hit, so we'll get'er patched righ' up."

Kirk loosened slightly at the news. "Good to hear. The faster the better. We're lucky we got hung up in Federation space, but sitting around like this still makes me nervous."

"It makes _you_ nervous?" said McCoy with a shudder. "Stranded in the middle of nowhere with a damaged ship and a potential madman—or should I say 'madkid'—with an imaginary enemy in _my_ medbay."

Kirk turned to him. "Bones, are you sure this Matharus guy is actually imaginary? Chekov _did_ seem to be having some sort of, uh…power struggle with himself and…something else… _inside_ him. You all saw that, right?"

"Yes," several of the room's occupants chorused.

"Some of us a little closer than others," muttered Sulu under his breath.

"Jim," Dr. McCoy said, "what can you call an invisible man only Chekov can see other than 'imaginary'?"

"I don't know, 'demonic possession'? And definitely _not_ 'Matharus'. Where would he even come up with a name like that, anyway?"

"Aye, Captain," Scotty replied before the unamused doctor could. "Sounds like the type o'guy who'd be righ' at home in an archive, though. D'yeh think all o'this could've been triggered by the electrical shock?"

"Hard to tell," McCoy said. "This is where it starts to get downright weird."

"And nothing leading up to this qualified as downright weird?" said Kirk, mostly to himself.

"Maybe a little _too_ weird, I mean. I ran full diagnostics on him when we brought him in the night of the accident—the whole spectrum—and again when he woke up almost a day later. Never seen a pair of scans come back so clean, so I discharged him. Ran the same diagnostics just now."

"And?

"You wouldn't believe it, but the inside of the kid's head is popping like corn over a campfire. He's always had a lot going on in there, but this…" Dr. McCoy swallowed and shook his head, seeming alarmingly perplexed, "this is like nothing I've ever seen."

Spock, who, up until this point, had remained perfectly still and reflective in his seat beside Kirk, began to stir.

"Doctor," he said, "am I correct to assume that, judging by your use of descriptive hyperbole, you have found his brain activity to be above its normal output?"

"Above? Not only is his own brain activity off the charts, it's like he's got a whole swarm of extra brains bouncing around inside his skull just for kicks."

The Vulcan contemplated. "Would it be possible that during your scans, you could have recorded distinct individual patterns within this…'swarm of extra brains'?"

"Here." Bones slid his medical PADD across the smooth glass tabletop. "See for yourself."

Spock caught the device, prompting Kirk and the others to gather around him.

"What…in the…" breathed Sulu after a good look.

The captain's uninjured eye widened. "Okay…okay, I was skeptical at first, but I see where you got the 'swarm of brains' thing now. Does this mean Chekov actually _is_ …possessed?"

"No," said Spock, scrolling through the charts, "Chekov is not 'possessed' in the earthly religious connotation of the term. But, as you speculated earlier, our navigator could be harboring a consciousness other than his own. In fact, based on these readouts, it appears there may be not one, but thousands of others—"

" _Thousands_?"

"Indeed, Captain."

"Oh, Pasha," Uhura gasped through her fingers.

Kirk let his head sink onto his crossed arms. "Why does everything on this ship have to be so complicated?"

"Did you really just ask that, Jim?" said McCoy.

"Well, that's definitely no' on the list of common side effects of electrocution," Scotty put in. "At least no' where I come from."

"Electrocution?" Captain Kirk sat up again quickly, eyebrows knitting together as something clicked. "Wait a minute, everybody thinks Chekov was messing with some broken wiring the night of the accident. But what if that's _not_ what he was doing? What if he…what if he lied?"

Sulu shot the captain a narrow-eyed glance of sheer befuddlement. "Why would someone _lie_ about how they nearly died? That makes absolutely no sense."

"Especially when that someone happens to be Chekov." Uhura added. "Has he ever told a lie in his entire life?"

"Does Chekov even know what a lie is?"

Kirk shrugged. "Wouldn't you lie too if you'd almost gotten yourself killed doing something incredibly stupid? Or at least bend the truth a little to save face in front of your commanding officer?"

Sulu and Uhura exchanged a look. "No," they replied together.

"Let me put it this way. Say you're an eighteen-year-old with an uncommon amount of brainpower and a lot more responsibility than anyone your age should have to handle. Say you're living on a ship full of adults, constantly under pressure to perform and prove yourself."

"Wouldn't he _want_ to tell the truth, then?" asked Sulu. "He doesn't get anywhere by lying."

"Yes, but he's _eighteen_ ," Kirk reiterated. "I bet no one in this room survived their teen years without at least exaggerating from time to…"

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, well, there's always the odd exception, of course, but what I'm saying is Chekov might be a Starfleet officer serving on a ship, and he may be a genius, but he's still—"

"—just a kid," Uhura finished, nodding in understanding.

"Right. And I don't know about you guys, but when I was his age, it made a lot more sense to tell a fib and move on with life than to get in trouble for whatever happened and regret it."

"Aye, but it still doesn't explain why he suddenly has thousands of extra minds mixed up in his head," Scotty pointed out. "Ah, shame we cannae take a peek inside…"

Kirk and Spock shared a knowing glance, after which the captain grinned.

"Actually, Scotty…maybe we can."


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Matharus was first to puncture the brief silence in which both he and Chekov seemed compelled to look everywhere except at each other.

"Are you absolutely sure you don't want to be called—"

"Yes," Chekov replied sharply.

Matharus shrugged. "Your loss, Pavel."

"And we are _not_ on first-name terms. 'Ensign' or 'Chekov' will be fine."

The alien sighed. "'Ensign or Chekov' it is, then."

"No, they are two different titles. 'Ensign'…" he paused to make his point clear, "…or 'Chekov'. Pick one."

"All right, all right." Matharus began to pace a few feet above him.

Chekov followed him back and forth a few times. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking about what our next move is, because if we don't move fast, I may never have the chance to decide which name I like better."

The teen pointedly ignored the last part of Matharus's answer. "So…what _is_ our next move? I hef as much to do with this as you, so I would appreciate it if you'd let me know what is going on."

"Yes, of course." Matharus stopped, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. "Well, the ideal action would be to get us off this ship and back on our way home…"

Chekov lifted his head as far as he could to gape at the other man. "Um, I'm not sure why I need to be reminding you, but ze last time 'we' tried to go home," he yanked at the restraints on his wrists for emphasis, "it didn't work. Besides, I am already in ze hugest loads of trouble. Wouldn't trying to leave again make things worse?"

"I didn't say we had to leave right this second, but as I told you before, you—ah, _we_ , that is, have no choice. If any of us are going to survive, we'll have to leave eventually and the sooner the better."

"And zat is another thing. What about _me_? What does all of this mean for my life here on ze _Enterprise_ , at home on Earth? How will it affect my friends, my family, my career? Doesn't…doesn't any of zat matter?"

"Yes, it does. Why wouldn't it?"

"Then can we _at least_ wait until there is ewidence proofing I am not insane? Maybe some of my friends could help."

"It depends on how long that takes. And how capable your friends are, I guess. In any case, we should be prepared."

Chekov didn't exactly like the sound of that. "Prepared? What for?"

Matharus seemed almost insulted. "'What do you mean 'what for'? You already know that if anything happens to you, it happens to all of us. If you want to return us safely and keep yourself from harm in the process, there are some things you need to learn. If not, I'm afraid your life may not be quite the same thereafter. Or even be at all."

He made a very good point, Chekov could not deny. He closed his eyes as his heart skipped at the thought of dying for and alongside a million people he didn't even know.

"Okay…okay, what do I hef to do?"

More like what _wouldn't_ he do? More than anything, he simply yearned to resume where he'd left off, to forget this mess and go back to the comfort of being the only person inside his head, to not having to be responsible for the well-being of a whole species. He wanted to go back to work with his friends and colleagues without confusing or frightening them. He just wanted to be Ensign Chekov of the USS _Enterprise_.

"Listen carefully, Young—" Matharus caught himself, "—I mean, listen carefully, Ensign or Chekov. To begin, when you touched the sphere, not only did you become host to our race, you inherited some of our advanced abilities which in turn activated a few interesting parts of your own brain."

He took a few seconds to straighten his coat and put on his familiar air of self-import.

"Allow me to explain…ah, briefly. Long ago, my people unlocked the secrets of the mind. We delved inward, probed the deepest reaches, found a rich treasure trove beyond anything you can comprehend, really amazing, yada-yada, and so on. Over the ages, we studied, harnessed, and perfected them until they became part of our natural existence. You now have access to a portion of these powers, and I'm going to teach you how to use them."

Matharus paused, allowing for the expected stunned reaction, however, Chekov had no idea how to respond to this revelation. How was he supposed to respond to _anything_ anymore?

"Your human mind is similar in structure and function to ours," the alien continued after clearing his throat, "though, to put it bluntly, much less sophisticated."

"Oh, thank you."

"Utilizing these convenient similarities—and a recently abundant amount of free time—I've been able to locate and map the section of your brain the powers originate from."

"Ayy, _what_?!" Chekov exclaimed. "Are you telling me you went _exploring_ inside my head while I was unconscious?"

Matharus blinked innocently. "Hey, I got bored, okay? You use a mere fraction of your brain and there's only so much to do while most of that portion it is sedated. Anyway, moving on—"

Chekov shifted in discomfort, not all of which was physical. "No, not moving on! I think we need to discuss boundaries, here!"

Matharus threw out his hands. "All right, okay, keep your pajamas on. It was only a technical venture and I didn't see anything personal, I assure you."

As much as he hated everything about Matharus foraging through his mind, Chekov would have to take his word for it. Even if he could go anywhere, he could never really get away from Matharus. If it weren't for the splitting headaches and that everyone on the ship was convinced he'd gone insane, that might the worst part of this ordeal.

"We can sort it out later, but now is not the time because we have work to do. As I was saying, to take advantage of your powers, the first step is usually to discover them, but since you've already done that…"

Chekov opened his mouth.

"Ah, without going into detail," the man rushed over the imminent expression of surprise, "from what I've heard, you basically fried part of this ship. An important part. With your mind. No, no, quit gawking at me like that, this is a good thing!"

"How can it possibly—"

"You should be grateful we get to skip ahead to the important stuff. Well, the basics of the important stuff, that is. Mastering your mind can take millennia in human time, but since your lifespan is _significantly_ shorter and we're in a bit of a hurry, you'll be getting the crash course."

The ensign sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. He was going to regret this one day, no doubt, however there was nothing he could do about it except work with the alien and get him and all his friends out of his head as quickly as possible.

"Fine," he finally mumbled.

"Okay, You know enough about the fundamental properties of matter and energy to…"

"' _Fundamental'_?" the teen blurted before he could stop himself, more than a little insulted. He wasn't the type to boast, nor did he use his unique proficiencies or circumstances for gain or privilege, but he hadn't spent his entire childhood in advanced physics lectures with people ten plus years his senior just to have his hard work labeled as "fundamental".

"Calm down, Ensign or Chekov—"

"And zat is _not_ my _name_."

"Like I said, I haven't decided which I like best yet. And I simply meant you don't know everything. Not even close. And what you _don't_ know is that lying dormant deep inside your being is a gift like you've never encountered, a raw strength ready and waiting for you to use."

This news, though irksome in many ways, was nothing short of terrifying in every other. Chekov thought about his friends again, about the damage he'd caused to the ship and what else he might be capable of should this power, whatever it may entail, be fully unleashed. It was already too clear that it was dangerous and volatile.

"In fact," said Matharus, "your entire species might naturally harbor the potential for these powers to some degree, they just haven't figured it out yet—you being the exception, of course. Allow me to step indoors…"

Chekov gasped at the blinding flash and the uncomfortable yet not-quite-painful prickling sensation of Matharus's consciousness passing through the outer borders of his mind.

 _Sincerely sorry about that. Things might be a little less complicated to demonstrate with me here in your head. You'll see what I mean soon enough._

"It's…it's okay," he replied, eyes squeezed shut. "Although, some warning next time would be nice."

 _Right. Can do._

Chekov nodded, then felt slightly sheepish as he realized corporeal gestures were now obsolete. Then again, why should he be embarrassed by that? He was already lying in the psych ward talking to himself.

Matharus jumped right into business. _Well, then, let's get started. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Nothing new to either of us. But what if I told you that your own brainwaves could act as the force behind that reaction?_

"I would tell you you're wrong. Or crazy."

 _That was rhetorical, by the way._

"Oh."

 _Well, my point is that this untapped area of your brain is capable of producing energy that can change the state of matter, move it, rearrange it, even create it…within reason. Everyone has limitations and we'll have to find out what yours are as we go. Now, if you'll excuse me a moment…_

"Wait, where are you—aagh!" The ensign yelped at the sudden ice-like twinge deep within his head. "Will you stop zat?!"

 _Oops, wrong neural pathway…_

"What heppened to giving me some warning first?"

 _Uh, just think of it as a new understanding of the term "nerve wracking", heh…_

"Not funny."

 _Yes, I know, I know, I'm truly sorry. Okay, how did I get in last time? Enter through the temporal lobe, take a left at the hippocampus and follow the biggest nerve until I find the cluster that resembles a malformed platypus—aha!_

Before Chekov could question how anything inside his head could resemble a malformed platypus, the twinge dissolved into a much less painful but no less unsettling hum at the very core of his brain. As it spread swiftly through his body, he found himself sifting through every feeling, physical or emotional, he'd ever had, but none could compare.

 _This is it. Welcome to the center of your central nervous system. Or, as we like to call it, the Origin._

"Wery creative."

 _Oh, would you give me a break? It sounds a lot more grand and mysterious in our language. Now, close your eyes and clear your mind._

Uncertain of just how one should go about clearing a mind with over a million people living in it, Chekov resorted to envisioning a blank, white void.

 _Good, good—wait, no, there's a little smudge of number theory over here in this corner._

"I kind of need zat."

 _And we need all the space you can spare, so it has to go. Don't worry, this is only a form of compartmentalizing. None of your thoughts or knowledge are actually disappearing, just compressing and moving. You'll get it all back._

"I hope so," Chekov, remarked, then reluctantly obliged and erased the thought.

 _Perfect. Now, that "humming" you hear is the sound of energy. A wave. That's what you'll eventually learn to control, and hopefully sooner than later. I'm going to trigger it again, and what I want you to do is feel it, concentrate on it, understand it. Then you must connect with and tame it._

"Connect…how do I do zat?"

 _That I can't tell you. Every individual's wave is unique to them and them alone. But trust me, you'll know when it happens, and once it does, everything else will come naturally. Ready?_

"I guess…"

No sooner had the words left his mouth, the odd hum bloomed in his mind again, louder and sharper than ever. Startled and overwhelmed, Chekov scrambled internally to seize it, only for it to fade away just out of his grasp at the last second.

 _Hmm…not bad._

"Are you kidding? Even I know zat was terrible."

Matharus was quiet a moment. _Yeah, yeah, that was actually pretty pathetic. Let's do it again, and this time, try associating the feeling with an image—the first image that comes to mind. I will say that this doesn't work for everyone, but I've heard that anchoring the energy in something your subconscious knows is real can create a sense of stability; a foundation on which to build confidence._

While Matharus's suggestion skirted the boundary of sound logic, the whole concept of anchoring a thought with an image seemed so vague and far-fetched to Chekov right then. What could he possibly associate with a hum he wasn't sure qualified as a sound in the first place? His thoughts drifted back to the whisperings of the sphere in the lab, his vision of the cave with the disembodied voices, his first encounter with Matharus where he'd been frozen in place, and abruptly realized that all of these occurrences had been accompanied by the same prickling chill, like slivers of ice caught in a swift electric current.

 _On three. One…two…three._

His head buzzed and instead of reaching for it, Chekov beckoned to it, letting the sensation come to him.

 _That's it, you've got it! Keep going!_

The wave cocooned Chekov completely and the hum suddenly intensified to the point of discomfort, then pain. Unable to endure the growing fear any longer, he opened his eyes, then wished he'd kept them shut tight.

He could see. He could see _everything_.

 _No, no, no, don't panic! This is normal, I promise! Stay with me…_

Don't panic? All around, above, below, between, even right through him, tiny glowing dots of light danced. They flitted about like fireflies scattered in the dark, some coursing in tendrils or veins in the air, channeling from one place to another, others swarming on the surfaces of objects in the room. They formed designs, constellations, patterns, symbols, equations Chekov had never seen before. Here was his very own universe full of stars, all at his command and the guy wanted him not to panic? So much unbridled power. So... _unnatural_. He had but to twitch and…

 _Chekov,_ came Matharus's voice, _I understand this may be a lot for your human mind to handle, but—_

A lot? No, it wasn't a lot. It was too much.

Chekov screamed.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Sorry, watch out, important stuff happening!"

A blur of blue zigzagged down the corridors, scattering people left and right, skirting around clumps of surprised science officers, nearly running over clusters of maintenance workers, and hurtling past members of security.

Seconds after exiting medbay, the gravity of Chekov's situation sank in all the way, setting off a shot of alarm. Briony suddenly realized that she might be the only one standing between her friend and an unwarranted court-martial, and that was a heavy thought. She might very well hold his career, even the rest of his life in her hands. If she couldn't find a way to validate his condition…

Finally screeching to a stop at the entrance of the archives, she could barely keep still long enough to tap in the code.

 _Access code denied,_ the computer replied calmly. _Please re-enter and—_

She jammed a fist into the touchpad. "Ow! Stupididioticpieceacrap—you know who I am!"

The indignant computer bleeped back at her.

"Don't you sass me! Open up before I tear you from the wall, rip out your wiring and—"

The doors slid apart.

"Thank you."

As soon as there was space enough, she forced herself through and dashed to the lab. Had that door been closed as well, she may have suffered a painful and embarrassing collision on top of already having had to deal with uncooperative technology. Instead, she went sliding the last few feet through the open doorway, nearly losing her balance before catching the edge of a desk.

"Uhh—Dr. Sylar!" she gasped.

The man in question emerged from between two workstations, arms full of broken odds and ends.

"Well, aren't you in a hurry? If I'd have known you were this eager to help clean up, I would have called you a lot soon—"

"Dr. Sylar," she repeated. "P-problem!"

"What?"

Without explanation, his winded assistant hurried past him, scooping up her notebook and a PADD.

"Briony…did you run all the way here?" Dr. Sylar quickly joined her.

"Yes."

"And was that you I heard yelling at—"

"Y-yes."

"Is something wrong?"

"No—" she stopped short, "um, actually yes, but not with me."

"What is it?"

"Just…it's just…" She spread her arms out as wide as they would go. "B-big problem."

"You already mentioned that." Now visibly concerned on several levels, Sylar deposited his load on the countertop. "What's going on?"

She gulped in a breath. "I…it's Chekov, he…" How could she put this? "He's in trouble…"

"Oh, you noticed—"

"No! No, no, it's not about—well, it is, but—the sphere!"

"Briony..."

She launched into a disjointed attempt at an explanation, gesturing wildly with every word she tripped over. "Th-the mandala—he's not—there's this advanced civilization—"

"Briony."

"—it's all in his head—no, not the way you think—"

"Briony," Sylar took her firmly by the shoulders. "I don't know _what_ to think at the moment because I can barely understand you. Slow down."

"But he needs our help—"

He held up a hand. "Then hyperventilating and passing out on the floor isn't going to do him any good, is it? Come on, take a deep breath…"

"Listen—he's going to be—"

"No, I need you to listen to _me_." The man's stern look and matching tone brought his protégé to silence. "We've talked about this. You _have_ …to _breathe_."

 _First step is to breathe..._

She nodded and closed her eyes, visualizing those words, willing her mind to reset itself, her heart rate to slow, the rising panic to dissipate before it spread.

"This anxiety doesn't define you. You're the one in charge."

 _I'm in charge...I can handle this…focus…_

"In through the nose, out through the mouth," Syler coached, "in and out, in and out, that's it."

 _Breathe...remember to breathe..._

"Good, good. Try to collect your thoughts and start from the very beginning."

"That's a very good place to start," Briony exhaled as his grip slackened, already feeling a bit more stable.

"It usually is, my dear. Now, let's try this again. You say Chekov needs our help because of the sphere?"

"Yes." She blinked her eyes open to meet his, choosing her words carefully. "The sphere…it's…it's a sort of vessel or ark designed to preserve displaced consciousnesses. He says it contained the last souls of an ancient civilization."

"'Contained'? As in 'used to contain'?"

"Exactly. Somehow, this entire alien race was downloaded into his mind the instant he touched it and now _he_ is the vessel. They're literally living inside his head—"

Sylar's eyes widened. " _They_?"

"Yes, 'they'. And 'they' have _chosen_ him to return them to their ancestral planet."

"Chosen," Sylar repeated distantly to himself, turning to lean into the countertop on his palms. "This may very well explain why the sphere has baffled us for so long. None of us were the 'right one', so to speak."

"He went all psycho and tried to take the ship because these people are trying to get _home_."

"Of course... An entire civilization housed within a single human mind. Briony, this is _extraordinary_ —"

"Yeah, the rest of the ship doesn't think so. H-he's going to be court-martialed, possibly institutionalized if I—I mean, if we can't help him."

Lines of worry deepened in the man's face as he considered this a moment.

"These are serious charges for a serious crime, Briony. Hijacking a starship…" he shook his head, "not something you can easily talk yourself out of, especially with a wild story very few are likely to buy. You and I understand from research and field experience that _stranger_ things than this have happened throughout the finite sliver of this galaxy's history we've uncovered. But just how do you suggest we go about proving his innocence to Starfleet?"

"That's why I came here. The database—I'm _sure_ I've gone over a specific case like this before, some instance of a consciousness taking a physical host. If we can find enough documented evidence of a similar occurrence, maybe we can convince the captain…" She drifted, seeing that Dr. Sylar was momentarily lost in his own thoughts.

"You know, my dear," he said at last, "it's a longshot, but you may be onto something here."

…

"Are you out of your corn-fed mind, Jim?"

"No," Kirk replied to the ruffled McCoy, standing and moving quickly toward the doorway, "but Chekov might be and he needs our help."

"And where do you think you're you going?"

"Sickbay. Where else?"

The doctor snagged him by an arm. "Oh, no, you're not! You already have command of the ship, I don't need you barging into—"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, doctor," Spock interrupted, following as Kirk broke free and started off again, "but a moment ago, I was under the distinct impression that you had exhausted every advanced medical diagnostic method or tool available."

Knowing the Vulcan was right and unable to counter, Dr. McCoy scowled, but trudged after the two nevertheless.

"We're still here, you know." Uhura was on her feet and right behind with Sulu and Scotty in tow. "Any time you feel like sharing..."

"A Vulcan mind meld, that's what," snapped the doctor without turning around. "Spock, do you have any idea what that could do to the kid's brain in its current state? We're talking going from mind meld to mind _meltdown_ in a matter of seconds!"

"I am well aware of the dangers involved," the first officer returned, stoic as always, "however, our immediate lack of options logically compels us to—"

Dr. McCoy huffed, throwing out his hands. "Huh, right, 'logically'. Why do I ever bother asking?"

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "I have begun to wonder the same thing."

"Bones," Kirk stopped the entourage in the middle of the corridor, taking McCoy by the shoulders before he could fire back, "we _have_ to try."

"Try to _kill_ him? Is that what you want to do?"

"Come on," urged the captain, "it's a chance, which is a lot more than we had ten minutes ago, and I don't know about you, but it sounds better than sitting by and doing nothing."

"Nothing?!" McCoy fumed. "Is that what you think? You think I've been sitting there beside an unconscious teenager with a riled-up beehive for brains for hours doing _nothing_?"

"You know that's not what I was imply—"

"WAIT!"

As one, the group wheeled to see a breathless young science officer dashing toward them, arms full of ancient-looking books and an older officer on her heels.

"Wait!" she shouted again, although unnecessarily as she was now within twenty feet of them. "Stop! You can't do this!"

"I'm…I'm, sorry, I don't remember you." Kirk confessed after a confused beat.

"Science Officer Briony Woods, sir," she gasped. "Xeno-archaeology."

The captain sent a quick glance in Uhura's direction. "I take it this is the girl you were talking about earlier."

"Transferred…transferred a few weeks ago from Starbase Eight," Briony said before Uhura could confirm, "so you probably don't know me, but I know Chekov—I…I mean, I've gotten to know him over the past few—anyway, I—we—have important information—he's not—you can't—I won't let you courtmartial him without a fair trial!"

Face set underneath the pair of large antique glasses sitting on her nose, she planted herself squarely in front of them like a one-woman brick wall.

The befuddled captain shared a look with his equally befuddled comrades. "Hold on, who said anything about courtmartialing?"

"If Ensign Chekov is found competent," Spock clarified, "he must stand trial for the offenses he committed."

"Yes, I know, but I meant that since it's not on the immediate agenda… Look, even if it gets to that point—and let's hope we can find some way out of this so it doesn't—it would be a while."

"And that's exactly why we're here." The stalwart Science Officer Woods was guided gently aside by the older man. "Take a moment, my dear. You know what to do." He then addressed Kirk directly. "My apologies, Captain. It's been a very…interesting day for many of us."

"Don't remind me. And it's 'Sylar', right?"

"Yes, I'm Dr. Trenton Sylar, also of xeno-archaeology. Briony and I believe we've found some useful information related to Ensign Chekov's escapade."

Kirk raised both of his hands, shaking his head. "Whatever it is, I'm all ears."

"Permission to speak freely, Captain," the young woman jumped back in, sounding surprisingly more grounded after a few deep breaths.

"Grant—"

"None of this was Chekov's fault—the attempted hijacking, damaging the ship—none of it."

"Well, it has to be somebody's," replied Dr. McCoy. "If not his, then whose?"

"I think I might have an answer to that."

After receiving an encouraging nod from her mentor, Briony pulled in a breath. When she spoke again, her tone was even, her words distinct and rational, suddenly calm and professional instead of frantic. It was obvious she was about to expound upon a subject in which she was so well-versed that knowledge overcame panic.

"I've been talking to Chekov for the past few days. In fact, I talked to him just before the incident and again a little while after in medbay." She cracked open one of the books and took something small and white from its pages. "I watched him draw this this morning in the rec hall. He didn't seem to be aware of what he was doing."

Kirk took the napkin, studying the bizarre circular scribble inked on one side as the others looked on.

"That's...that's really odd…"

"Oh, you noticed," retorted Bones under his breath.

"The security team found a design pretty close to this while investigating Chekov's quarters. I was there. I saw it myself. It was like...it was like he'd totally lost it and started gouging it into the wall for no reason. I didn't even realize it had a pattern until now."

"And that pattern looks a _lot_ like what he was starting to draw on the panel when he attacked the bridge," Sulu added.

"Dr. Sylar," Kirk continued, "do either of you know what this is? If it means anything?"

"We've encountered mandalas like this before," replied Sylar, "all with varying purposes. The complete version of the design on the vessel in the archives might tell us what…"

"Eh, what's this aboot a vessel?" Scotty interjected "Yeh never mentioned tha' til now."

"I was getting to it, but we have reason to believe our young Ensign has unwittingly gotten himself chosen as host to the remaining souls of an ancient civilization."

"Well, that settles it," the chief engineer clapped McCoy on the back, "there's yer swarm o'brains righ' there."

Kirk blinked, then sighed and rubbed his forehead. "It couldn't have been anything less weird and complicated?"

Briony picked up the explanation again, consulting the topmost book from her armful.

"Captain, this phenomenon has been documented extensively throughout many cultures across many worlds." She handed the heavy tome to the commanding officer, pointed out a paragraph, then flipped open another. "As you can see, the occurrences we've uncovered appear to share certain similarities." She deposited the second book into his arms as well. "From what we've gathered, a highly advanced being or group of beings construct and use some sort of special vessel, or 'ark', as we like to call them in the profession, to preserve their collective consciousness and way of life after their world comes to a cataclysmic end."

"Can you maybe not—" Kirk grunted as the next book was delivered, "—do that—never mind…"

"In Chekov's case, the ark was specifically designed to choose a worthy host and transfer the preserved souls into its mind in order for said host to transport them to their ancestral home world."

"Wait, home world," muttered Uhura eyebrows coming together, "he did keep saying he wanted to go home. Could this be what he was talking about?"

"If it was him doing the talking in the first place," said Sulu.

"There's a spherical artifact we've been studying in our lab for some time," Dr. Sylar said, watching as his protégé placed the PADD on top of the tottering tower of books in Kirk's hands, "the artifact we now know has the complete mandala. Briony was giving Chekov a tour of the archives and we both had to step out for a moment…"

"Let me guess," Bones interjected dryly, "kid just couldn't keep his hands off."

"And as soon as he touched it, every single soul residing within the vessel was 'downloaded' into his mind. That was how he got shocked."

"Now hold up a wee bit," Scotty stepped toward the two science officers, one arm raised and face lined with concern. "How can yeh be so sure this artifact was wha' shocked the lad and no' a broken conduit or anything like tha'?"

Briony and her senior shared a glance. "Well, we didn't actually _see_ it, but as far as we could tell, that's what happened. I don't know how it could've been anything else because the artifact was in his hand when we found him. Nothing else in the room had been damaged by the current…or whatever it was, if that counts for anything."

"Your eyewitness accounts and subsequent research are in line with what we have also concluded," Spock said, "but none of it will be considered credible unless we have actual proof."

"Proof, right..." Kirk handed off the books to an unprepared Scotty minus the PADD, which he handed to his first officer. "Spock, can you access the security logs from here?"

"Yes, Captain." Spock took the tablet, bringing up a live video feed of the lab in the archives. With a few strategic taps, he reversed it to the point just before a white-hot flash blotted out the entire screen and let it play as the others gathered around.

Clutching a small object, Chekov ambled cautiously between two workspaces. He paused, dropping the object into a small storage crate, then seemed to become distracted by something lying on the countertop across from him, which brought him around the other side to investigate. Just as he arrived, he froze, looking confused if not genuinely terrified. It was as if he'd heard something behind him and couldn't quite muster the courage to turn and see for himself what it was. His lips moved then, but without audio, none of them could make out what he'd said. One thing was certain, however, and that was that he was completely alone. Judging by the security details on the feed and what they could see with their own eyes, there was no one in the room with him.

Suddenly, Chekov snapped around and began to paw through the clutter on the opposite workstation like a dog searching for a buried bone. And then it appeared. The small, spherical artifact the two xeno-archaeologists had described. The captain's breath caught as he watched his young friend study and then reach for the metallic sphere.

 _Don't touch it, Pavel, please don't..._

Chekov picked it up, holding it high above his head, his intentions obviously nothing more than innocent curiosity...

Kirk winced at the silent explosion of electrical light. Beside him, Uhura released a sharp gasp of horror as the boy's glowing skeleton became visible for a split second before the scene cleared to reveal Chekov's lifeless form sprawled on the floor of the now darkened room.

"Of course," murmured Kirk gravely. "Of course. Now it makes sense why he never told us what really happened."

"You…you mean you didn't know?" asked Sylar.

"Everybody thought he'd been messing with some faulty wiring and hit a live one. I was starting to have some doubts about his story, but—"

 _Bleetbleet_

" _Now_ what?" McCoy snatched the communicator from his belt without hesitation. "McCoy here, what's—"

 _"Medbay to Dr. McCoy!"_ The female voice was shrill and tense. _"It's Chekov! He's…he's escaped from medbay!"_


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

With a tidal wave of special curses reserved for occasions like this, Dr. McCoy took off down the hallway. At exactly the same time, Kirk whirled to face Sulu.

"Take the conn and secure the bridge. Nobody gets in or out until I give the all-clear."

"Aye, sir," the helmsman nodded, then went sprinting in the opposite direction.

"Scotty—" the captain spun again, this time in search of his chief engineer, only to see a pile of scattered books where the man had been standing seconds before, "—is already on the way to engineering, never mind. Spock, go to yellow…"

Spock was one step ahead, busy entering his authorization code at record speed into one of the computer consoles built into the corridor walls.

 _Yellow Alert. All personnel report to designated stations immediately._

For the second time that day, the computerized voice, flashing lights and the unsettling wail of the alarm filled the hallways as crew members rushed to various posts.

"Computer," Spock said evenly, "locate Ensign Pavel Andreivich Chekov."

A holographic, three-dimensional cross-section of the _Enterprise_ materialized in midair above the console and, despite the commotion, Briony's attention was drawn instantly to the stationary island of dots and ID numbers marking the group's current position in the ship. The layout was very similar to the schematic she and Chekov had been studying that very morning.

That very morning.

It all seemed so distant now, like a weird dream dredged from the bottom of her memory. How had it gone from a conversation over breakfast to near-death, insanity, a prospective court-martialing, and a yellow alert?

The horrific image of Chekov's accident replayed in her head and her heart sank to her already nauseous stomach as it occurred to her that she might be responsible for much of what was happening now. If she had simply kept her mouth shut and her stupid problem to herself, she and Chekov never would have met. He never would have touched the sphere and nearly died. The ship wouldn't be damaged, and they would all be continuing their peaceful, if not somewhat dull, daily routine—

She blinked.

One of those ID numbers was familiar. Disturbingly familiar. Breath catching in her chest, she leaned slightly closer to make sure she'd seen what she thought she had.

 _81DD7_

There was no mistaking it. Standing less than two feet away from her was none other than the mysterious hovering dot that had previously occupied the space just beyond the vault. How was this even possible? Schvaneveldt had been caught red-handed only hours before and _everything_ pointed to him as the thief…

Unless…

But then that must mean…no, it couldn't be. Absolutely couldn't…

 _"Ensign Chekov is located in section B between decks three and four,"_ replied the computer, bringing her back to the present.

"Between?" the captain asked. "How can he be between decks? That makes no—"

At his first mention of the word "between", Briony's frantic train of thought screeched to a stop.

"Oh, passages!" she blurted, then shrank a little as eyes gravitated toward her collectively. "The, um…passages. It—it's how he's getting around?" Briony gulped, then shrugged, trying to appear cool and unruffled. "Like, you know, through the walls…or whatever. But really, I have no idea what I'm talking about because why would I…"

"I believe what Miss Woods is implying," Spock clarified, "is that Chekov could be utilizing the Jeffries tubes and other crawlspaces within the ship's interior workings as a means of traveling to his intended destination." He eyed her. "Although I am not entirely certain as to how a crew member of your status and profession could be aware of their existence in the first place."

"Uh…well, I…that is…" The young science officer paled, faltering under the Vulcan's hard gaze. Fortunately, the captain himself came inadvertently to her rescue.

"It looks like he's heading for the shuttle bays," he said, eyebrows furrowing. "And fast. _Really_ fast."

"But he's coming from the wrong direction," Sylar pointed out. "Medbay is all the way up here—"

"The archives!" Briony blurted yet again. "He's—the artifact! He must have gone down to the archives for the sphere!"

"Oh, no." Uhura's voice was tight with worry, "looks like he—I mean, that _thing_ controlling him—is making a break for the back door."

"We have to stop him—er, it—before it does something stupid… I mean something _else_." Kirk paused, shaking his head. "This is getting confusing. Okay, Spock, Uhura, you're with me."

"Wait, what about—" Briony started.

"You two go back to the archives and start digging up what you can about that mandala." Captain Kirk trotted a few steps and motioned for Uhura and Spock to follow. "I want a full report, everything you can possibly find. I have a feeling we're gonna need it. Let's go!"

With a nod, Sylar immediately obeyed orders, starting down the corridor almost before the captain had finished speaking, but Briony hesitated a moment. A dozen or so steps later, he finally took note of her absence by his side.

"What are you doing?" he called over a shoulder. "You heard the captain. Hurry!"

Suddenly overcome with an indecisive apprehension, she scanned him, taking in all she could in the blink of an eye.

It was him. No matter what angle she took it from, no matter which way she tried to spin it, she knew deep in the pit of her heart that Dr. Sylar was not what he seemed. Instead, the man she had grown to admire professionally over the weeks, the man who had taken her under his wing upon arrival, the man who was the very essence of what a good, moral, respected scientist should be, was nothing more than a low-life liar. He'd been hiding right under her nose, playing the role model the entire time, and she'd been too stupid, too wrapped up in his fake mentorship to see him for the snake he really was.

And, she realized with a sickening jolt, she was going to have to confront him. Alone.

"Coming, Dr. Sylar."

With a breath, she summoned her remaining wits and courage, forcing one foot after the other until she was at a trot.

Briony had never faced a situation quite like this before. Difficult team members? Yes. Random injuries on digs? Naturally. Making her way to the archives on the heels of a criminal? Never. Ironically, Dr. Sylar was one of the first people she would have run to seeking advice on something like this, but those days were over. She was on her own this time and it was up to her to handle. But…how?

She trailed behind a ways, making sure to keep up just enough to avoid suspicion while maintaining a safe distance. She had to come up with something, act before he caught on that she'd discovered his dirty little secret. Her options were fairly limited as the man was obviously a master of deceit and an expert manipulator, so confronting him verbally was probably not the best idea. Perhaps a more direct physical approach would be more effective?

She cringed. She had, of course, been through the necessary basics of hand-to-hand combat and phaser training, just like any other cadet. However, xeno-archaeology wasn't high on the list of fields requiring much use of those skillsets. And, just like any other cadet, she'd been swept up in the excitement of future exploration and discovery and never gave it a second thought once she'd earned a passing grade.

They rounded the last corner and entered the deserted archives.

"Let's search the ship's local database first and branch out from there."

She nodded, making as if to follow, then hung back a few seconds at the emergency locker right beside the lab door. As quietly as she could, she put in the code—it was a miracle she remembered it at all three weeks after her initial orientation—slid it open and curled her fingers around a phaser. The weapon felt foreign and volatile in her hands, like a smooth and deadly serpent.

When she was certain he was distracted at one of the computer stations, she held it aloft, making sure her shaking hands were in the correct position, and clicked it into stun mode.

Sylar glanced up at the unfamiliar sound, then retreated several paces in alarm. "Briony?! Wh-what is this? What are you—"

"Sorry, the innocence card won't work on me anymore." She hoped the slight waver in her voice wasn't too audible. "Secret's out."

Raising his hands, Dr. Sylar opened and closed his mouth several times before he was able to speak. "What are you _talking_ about?"

Anger coursed into her veins at his blatant denial, giving her added strength. The phaser steadied a bit.

"I…I know you're the one who's been stealing from the archives and sending me threats."

"Th-threats?" The man's eyes widened in dawning comprehension. "Oh…oh, no, Briony, my dear—"

"Don't call me that! Don't you _ever_ call me that again! And I understand, trust me. I know who you are, I know you've been messing with the system to switch ID numbers and frame Schvaneveldt. I know you've been watching me."

"That's not true! Please, Briony, you're overreacting to a terrible misunderstanding and I need you to listen—"

"NO!" she shouted, advancing a step as the tears she'd kept at bay until now overflowed. "No, I'm done listening to you! You and your stupid, fake advice and encouragement. I…I respected you! You were everything I ever wanted to be and now I'm disgusted just to be in the same room with you."

The senior xeno-archaeologist ventured forward as well.

"Don't—" Briony brandished the phaser, "y-you stay right there!"

"Briony," he said again after a tense pause, "please hear me out. You've gotten all of this backwards and you're going to regret pulling that trigger, I'm telling you. Put the phaser down and give me a chance to explain before you do something stupid…"

"Oh, I don't need an explanation," she spat. "Save it for the captain."

"NO, WAIT—"

Much to her own surprise, she fired, hitting him square in the chest. While he flew several feet and crashed into a countertop, she whirled and threw herself out the door. As soon as it closed, she unleashed the phaser pointblank on the touchpad, only ceasing when she realized she'd turned it into a sizzling, melted lump.

Then, full realization of what she'd just done made her double over in near-agony, driving her down the corridor and around the corner to the vault. Once she staggered inside, she could go no further and collapsed to her hands and knees, letting the tears fall freely.

 _Breathe…breathe…move on…_

"Keep it together," she lectured herself after a minute or two. "Keep it together…for Chekov…"

"If that brat is the reason you're down here, I'm afraid you're a bit late."

With a startled yelp, Briony scrambled to her feet, fumbling with the phaser until it was aimed in the general direction of the voice. There in the doorway of the restricted zone—which had been reduced to a pile of shattered glass—was a tall, shadowy figure. Set in the dark void of its head like burning jewels was a pair of glowing amber eyes.

"The little punk got here just before I did, unfortunately. Kind of ruined my immediate plan," the specter strode into a thin slice of light, "but who am I to complain when an opportunity practically falls into my lap? Oh, this is going to be so...much...fun."

" _Swannie_?" Briony could barely gasp the name before it escalated into a scream and the phaser was ripped from her hands by a vicious, unseen force.

"How many times do I have to tell you," growled the advancing creature, " _not_ to call me _SWANNIE?"_

…

Puffing and red in the face, Dr. McCoy descended upon medbay like a hurricane on the Gulf.

"Chapel!" he shouted for his righthand nurse, who was sifting rapidly through readouts and data at the main console. "Christine, what—how?!"

"I don't know, doctor," she said, "I really don't know. You need to see this.

Nurse Chapel, the tall, blonde medical professional that had been by his side for several months now was not easily shaken, but McCoy detected a note of trepidation beneath her words.

Without another exchange, the two hastened through medbay, stopping just within the entrance of the psych unit.

"He became violent again. We tried to sedate him, but he was…he was too strong."

McCoy's eyes narrowed. "Too strong? He was strapped to a biobed."

With a slight, almost fearful nod, Nurse Chapel indicated the darkened space Chekov had been and should still be occupying.

The doctor swore under his breath as he approached the area, or rather what remained of it. The light in the ceiling had not been extinguished so much as obliterated and sparks rained from exposed wiring, leading his gaze to the chaos below. The monitors were shattered, their bases bent and twisted as if they'd been through a shredder while other medical debris littered the shattered cupboards and floor. And at the center of it all was the biobed. Its straps, which were supposed to keep things like this from happening, weren't even there anymore.

…

Uhura was getting used to running after Kirk as he charged headlong toward death and danger or whatever the catastrophe at hand entailed. After all, _someone_ had to keep him from getting himself killed. But this? This was different. This wasn't a crazy exploit involving vengeful time-traveling Romulans with a ship the size of Rhode Island. It was personal. A friend they all knew and loved dearly was in great danger and if they couldn't reach him fast enough, they faced the very real possibility of never seeing him again. Though she'd been through some trying events, all of which made her stronger, losing Pavel was one storm on the horizon she wasn't sure she could weather.

The lieutenant kicked it into high gear at this thought, coming alongside Spock, who was right on Kirk's heels. She was much smaller than the other two, but in top physical condition, as any Starfleet officer was expected to be, and perfectly capable of keeping the pace…for now.

Flicking a sideways glance at her boyfriend, she wasn't surprised to notice he wasn't even breathing hard, let alone breaking a sweat. It was an oddly reassuring sight, knowing that if she or Kirk were forced by their human limitations to the sidelines of the race for Pavel's life, Spock's Vulcan physiology would allow him to keep going. For miles, if need be. If they faltered, he might still be able to reach Pavel in time.

 _Might._

In this context, the word was loaded with heavy implications. She hated them all.

As they passed the next corner, the _bleetbleet_ of a communicator brought them skidding to a brief halt.

 _"Captain,"_ came Sulu's voice.

With a practiced movement, Kirk swiped the little device from his belt and flipped it open. "Kirk here. Go ahead."

 _"Captain, we've locked onto Chekov from the bridge. It looks like he's going for shuttlebay six."_

"Got it," he replied. "On our way. Kirk out."

With a course correction and renewed urgency, the three were off again. Never had the ship seemed so endlessly huge to Uhura. Corridor after corridor, corner after corner, she lost count and felt as if they might as well be running backwards for the progress they were making.

 _Pavel. We have to find Pavel. We have to help him._

It was the only thing in the universe that mattered. It became her mantra and she inwardly chanted it in double-time to the pounding of her boots. It was almost a relief to nearly crash into the captain when he finally hung a sharp right and slid into the entrance to shuttlebay six.

"Captain," cried Zahra, one of the security officers dispatched to the site, "he's shut us out from the inside."

Kirk brushed past her to poke at the keypad a few times, slamming a fist into it and muttering a few choice words when nothing happened.

"It is likely that the being residing within Ensign Chekov has acquired the ability to deactivate the override codes."

"No, really," grunted Kirk as he made a few vain attempts at pushing and kicking the solid metal door.

"Okay, seriously?" With a huff, Uhura nudged him aside and tapped the intercom option on the panel. "Chekov? Chekov, can…can you hear me?"

No answer. She honestly hadn't expected much of a response, but the total silence was unnerving.

"Pavel, are you there? It's Uhura. We're here to help you."

A longer pause, and still nothing.

"Maybe he's not in there anymore," suggested the other guard.

Swiping the nearest phaser, Kirk once again took a stance before the door. "I don't think we'd be locked out if he wasn't. Stand back, everybody."

The other four barely had time to jump clear before Kirk—perhaps a little too enthusiastically—blasted the lock to bits.

"Ha," he said, shoving the door open with some help from Zahra, "works every time. Come on."

Uhura was about to ask if the theatrics were really necessary, but was hit by a wave of cold air that froze the words to the tip of her tongue. The shiver it induced was contagious, running through each member of the group in turn. Even Spock, now with a chirping tricorder in hand, seemed disconcerted by the prickling chill coming from the darkness beyond.

"Temperatures are approximately thirty-seven-point-three degrees below ship-wide average," reported the Vulcan.

"Only thirty-seven?" The captain stood with his arms wrapped around his middle. "It's like a walk-in freezer in here."

Uhura gasped, seizing Spock's wrist tightly and pointing into the vast space. "Look. Over there."

As if on cue, a faint, bluish glow flickered to life at the very center of the room.

"Is…is that…" Kirk moved forward, but Uhura held out an arm.

"No, wait…" she admonished, "let me."

"Nyota…" Even at a whisper, the concern in Spock's tone was easy to register.

"I'll be fine, Spock, just…just let me try to talk to him. Maybe...maybe I can get through." She paused, sending him what she hoped was a reassuring smile and not a fearful grimace. "After all, I _am_ a communications officer. You, of all people, should be able to see the logic in that."

Without waiting for a reply, she commenced her cautious journey into the gloom ahead.

"Phasers ready," she heard Kirk whisper to the guards behind her, "but only on stun. I don't want anyone hurt if this goes downhill."

Uhura relaxed a tad. She and Captain Kirk may have started off on the wrong foot in their pre-Starfleet days, but his heroic actions during the encounter with the _Narada_ had proven many of her misgivings wrong. Though, in many ways, he was still the same bull-headed Jim Kirk she'd shared countless classes and lectures with, he'd shown himself to be much more than the pompous, womanizing jerk she'd initially taken him for. He'd grown. He was captain's chair material; competent, bold, passionate about his job and the people he worked with. She was steadily come to look up to and trust him both as a commanding officer and a close friend, and knowing he had her back was incredibly heartening.

A reappearance of the strange light about twenty-five feet away brought her focus back to the task at hand. Uhura paused, listening carefully. Through the thud of her own racing heartbeat, she discerned what may have been a small sob wrapped in ragged breaths.

"Pavel?" she ventured.

The breathing caught.

"It's okay, Pasha," she said, tiptoeing a little closer, "I know you're frightened, but we're here to help you. We'll always be here to help you and you can count on that."

The light, which she noticed was actually a strange luminescent frost, slithered in tendrils along the ground from a central point where a human shape hunched on its knees.

"Pasha?" The breath behind the name left her mouth in a puff of steam.

"Stay away."

The warning had the exact opposite effect and she approached his huddled form swiftly, sinking to her own knees before him. The boy's body was wracked by a violent, shivering spasm. She reached, hoping that a touch of warmth would at least provide some comfort and perhaps a vital channel to more information.

As soon as she made contact, he went rigid.

"It's okay," Uhura repeated gently. "Please, Pasha, let us help you."

"You…you c-can't," he choked. "It's already t-too late."

"No, no, don't say that. It's never too late."

"You d-don't under…understand. I'm…dying."

After a stunned beat, Uhura collected herself, scooting forward to grasp him by the shoulders.

"I refuse to believe that. Come with us. We can figure this out, I know we can."

"Follow ze stars," was all he mumbled in reply.

"What?"

"I must…follow ze stars. It is ze only way. I…I hef to go."

"Go…where?"

Slowly, he uncurled himself and opened his eyes, causing Uhura to gasp and recoil involuntarily. Instead of their usual bright, friendly green, his eyes glowed a vivid, pupil-less aquamarine.

He extended his hands outward, releasing the object he'd been clutching to his chest. Free at last, a small silver sphere rose into the chilly darkness. Uhura took in a sharp breath as the frost spread rapidly across the floor in every direction once more, travelling right underneath her as if she weren't even there. She knew then that it wasn't merely a dusting of abnormal ice crystals, but a physical manifestation of great power.

At a sudden intense flash, she flung an arm over her eyes as her head snapped up to witness a tiny line slicing its way around the circumference of the artifact. An odd hum throbbed from its core, washing over them in pulsating waves. Then, with a mechanical click, the two hemispheres split apart, hovering one over the other while the light confined within burst forth and bathed all present in an indescribable warmth.

Uhura stood, eyes widening at the wispy, mesmerizing projection beginning to take form high above them. Billions of bluish-white particles of what could only be pure starlight gushed from between the two halves and flicked about, leaving shimmering trails in their wakes that danced and swirled and eventually weaved themselves into an intricate orb—a perfect three-dimensional version of the mysterious mandala.

And then, as if by the crumbling of a mental wall, it became clear to her.

This was not a mandala, as they had previously thought. Not at all. This was a beautiful, complex map crafted with great care by beings of unfathomable intelligence. A living star chart which, by some cosmic twist of fate, had found its way into the most capable—however unsuspecting—pair of hands in the galaxy.

Chekov raised an arm, pointing to one of the foreign symbols drifting serenely inside the orb.

"There."


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The orb dimmed. The two halves of the sphere rejoined and dropped to the ground with a loud clatter while the brilliant glow faded from Chekov's eyes.

"Pasha!" Uhura lunged as he tipped, falling to her knees and gathering his limp form into her arms.

The others came running and the captain crouched beside her, searching under Chekov's jaw for a pulse, then trading it for a wrist.

"Come on, don't do this…"

"He's not…please tell me he's not…" Uhura began.

Shaking his head after a tense pause, Kirk huffed with relief. "Spock, I think now might be a good time. Make it quick."

The shuttlebay descended into silence as, without a word, the Vulcan knelt at Chekov's side, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then, he reached for him, placing each finger of his right hand at precise points on the ensign's face.

"My mind to your mind," Spock chanted, "your thoughts to my thoughts. My mind to your mind, your thoughts to my thoughts. My mind to…"

…

 _A searing white flash nearly caused Spock to break the connection prematurely, but a force like he'd never felt before suddenly immobilized him. This was most unusual. He should have gained access to the boy's memories by now. Instead, all was disconcertingly dark and quiet._

 _"Hello, Mister Spock," came a deep voice from somewhere in the nothingness._

 _A man in a long green coat materialized before him in a pool of soft light. The force lessened until Spock was able to move freely._

 _"I do not believe we have met," he said._

 _"We haven't," the man replied, "but I've learned a lot about you."_

 _The Vulcan lifted an eyebrow._

 _"Let me put it this way: our young friend admires and respects you greatly." He smiled, then gestured to the vast space around them. "Please forgive me for the odd manner of our meeting. This mind melding ability your kind possesses is quite remarkable. However, owing to the gravity of our current situation, I'm afraid I've been compelled to make a few, ah…modifications to your technique. I hope you don't mind."_

 _"That is…logical."_

 _"I thought you might say something like that. Well, then, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Matharus and I represent the displaced remnants of an ancient and highly advanced civilization, but I'm sure you already knew that since our Host has tried multiple times to inform your companions."_

 _"We were unaware of your existence until very recently and were under the impression that he was suffering the psychological effects of a traumatic injury."_

 _"Yes, I noticed," Matharus nodded, "but not to worry. Now that you're here, we can clear this little matter up and move on."_

 _"Where is 'here'?"_

 _"Your Vulcan mind meld allows you to see the thoughts of those you connect with as if through a window, but for the sake of time and clarity, I have temporarily joined your consciousness with our collective. You are literally standing—well, maybe not_ literally _-literally—but you're inside Chekov's mind."_

 _"Fascinating."_

 _"Yes, yes, it really is. Also, very convenient."_

 _"Is he aware of my added presence?" Spock asked._

 _"Possibly. He's not_ quite _unconscious—otherwise this conversation would be taking place on your terms, not mine—therefore, I'm almost certain he can see and hear us, but for the moment, is likely incapable of responding. The strain of housing the essences of an entire race is quickly taking its toll, as you may have seen out there in the physical world. It's a wonder he's come this far at all. From what I've observed, most other species would have mentally disintegrated under the pressure by now."_

 _Spock quirked his head. "I…do not understand."_

 _"Chekov has proven to be somewhat of an anomaly, even within his own people, having an unusually strong and complex mind, which is why we suspect the Vessel chose him to be our Guardian in the first place. He's fighting a difficult fight, and faring remarkably well given the circumstances, I might add, although he won't last forever."_

 _"My fellow crew members and I are prepared to provide assistance in any way possible."_

 _"I have no doubt you are. If I've learned anything from this experience so far, it's that humans thrive on the strength and comfort given freely by those they hold affection for, and likewise, on the benefits of the strength and comfort they give freely to others. This may be the reason they're a much sturdier, more advanced people than we initially assumed."_

 _"I have drawn similar conclusions during my time among them."_

 _"I would think so, given that you are part human yourself."_

 _"True."_

 _"As our Guardian, returning us to our world is now Chekov's responsibility, but it doesn't mean he has to do it alone. He knows what to do. He knows where to go. However, the bond of friendship you all share could very well be what sees him through to the end. Once he completes the task, Chekov and my people will go their separate ways and his mind will…hopefully heal with time."_

 _Spock pondered briefly. "Your use of the word 'hopefully' implies a significant risk to the well-being of Ensign Chekov."_

 _"Unfortunately, Mister Spock," Matharus bowed his head, "you are correct. The longer we wait, the greater the chance he may never recover when all is said and done. It was never our intention to cause harm to anyone, I assure you. In choosing Chekov, the Vessel was simply doing what it was designed to do eons ago and he happened to be the individual it deemed best for the job. Personally, I think it would be a waste to damage a mind—and more importantly, a heart—like his."_

 _Spock's brow furrowed. "There was nothing in our chief medical officer's diagnostic reports to indicate that he might have a cardiovascular defect…"_

 _Matharus sighed. "No, I mean his soul…his spirit. He has great potential to do great things. He's a good person in possession of an incredible gift, and that's a combination you don't come across every millennium. I, for one, believe the Vessel made the right selection, no matter how human he is or how inadequate he feels—"_

 _A sudden jarring from the outer world violently dropped everything back into blackness…_

…

"Spock?" First to regain his footing, Kirk stumbled quickly to the aid of his sprawled first officer. "You okay? Spock!"

Spock gasped as the captain tapped his face, eyes snapping open and flicking about in momentary confusion. The distant but powerful explosion had knocked everyone, including the Vulcan, to the ground.

"Spock, are you all right?" Uhura repeated worriedly. She'd been able to keep hold of Chekov, although in doing so, had sacrificed her right side and elbow in order to spare him a hard landing.

"I am…I am unharmed, Nyota," Spock confirmed, sitting up. "What happened?"

"No idea."

"Time to find out." Kirk snatched his communicator on the way to retrieve the sphere. "Bridge, report."

 _"Explosion near main engineering, Captain,"_ said Sulu. _"Shields, stabilizers, and life-support systems functioning at slightly decreased, but non-life-threatening levels. No word from Mister Scott."_

"Go to Red Alert and keep trying."

 _"Aye, sir."_

"Kirk out. Zahra," the captain then addressed the guard, "find Hendorff, get a team together, and go check it out. Could've been an accident, but with everything else that's happened today, I doubt it."

"Aye, sir," she affirmed and the two guards dashed for the entrance.

"Matharus…" Spock said from the floor. "I spoke with Matharus."

"What?"

"The being Chekov mentioned…he is indeed real and I can confirm he poses no threat."

Kirk hauled the Vulcan up. "No—rgh—threat? How does forcing a teenager into trying to hijack my bridge translate to 'no threat'? You sure you're okay?"

Back on his feet, Spock hurried to help Uhura with Chekov, pulling one of the ensign's arms over his shoulders. "There's no time for a detailed explanation."

"Then give me what we _do_ have time for." Kirk mirrored Spock's actions on the boy's other side and the two hoisted him between them.

"Everything Chekov has been trying to communicate is true. His mind is currently host to the entirety of an ancient alien race, and they are, in fact, attempting to find their way home. Their 'possession' of Chekov was, for all intents and purposes, involuntary, and, due mainly to a lack of understanding on both parts, neither they nor Chekov can be directly blamed for anything that has transpired over the last few hours. The only way to save him and Matharus's people is to help him take them their ancestral system. And quickly. The longer we wait, the more his condition deteriorates. As do their chances of survival."

"Well, that…wasn't as helpful as I'd hoped it would be," Kirk mumbled as they reached the entrance and turned into the corridor, "but it sounds like you had a nice chat. Did this guy happen to say anything about how to, oh, I dunno, maybe get them all _out_ of Chekov's head?"

"Chekov has already given us much of the necessary information."

"So…so he really is dying, then?" Uhura opened the lift doors and ushered them inside.

"Yes. I am afraid he is."

"What do we do, then? We can't take him anywhere with a damaged ship."

"Let's just start by getting him back to medbay first," Kirk replied. "Bones'll come up with something…unless he's developed an aneurism by now—"

 _Bleetbleet_

 _"Captain?"_

Eager for more news, the commanding officer picked up his communicator in his free hand.

"Kirk here, what've you got for me, Sulu?"

 _"Sorry, sir, but it's nothing good."_

"Of course it's not. Tell me anyway."

 _"Right, sir. We've just heard from Scotty."_

"Is he okay?"

 _"Pretty worked up. Could barely understand him through all the cursing."_

"He's fine, then."

 _"The transmission was patchy but he—casualties so far—omething about—in the coolant—at—temp—failu—"_

Sulu's bleak report dissolved into static just before the lift was jolted to a halt by another blast. Once again, the group found themselves on the floor.

"The explosions...they're coming from _inside_ the ship," Uhura gasped, clawing her way upright as the lights flickered and dimmed.

"Sabotage…?" Kirk wondered aloud while he and Spock maneuvered Chekov back into place on their shoulders.

"What's the point of sabotaging an already damaged ship? We're not going anywhere!"

"Yeah, don't remind me. Here…" the captain handed his side of the boy off to Uhura in order to pry a panel from the wall. Once it was free, he tossed it aside and began probing the lift's emergency manual controls. "Well, we _almost_ made it to medbay. Looks like we'll have to go through the top hatch and climb the rest of the way. Shouldn't be far."

Chekov moaned, trying to lift his head. "Uuungh...wh...where..."

Uhura and Spock lowered the boy to the ground, propping him against the wall.

"Stay still, Pasha. Don't try to talk."

"Uhh, we've got another problem to add to the list," grunted Kirk. "Hatch might be jammed. Aren't we supposed to have inspections so that these kinds of things _don't_ happen?"

"Want me to file a formal complaint with Starfleet?" Uhura asked flatly.

"Yeah, do that. Put it in a little P.S. at the bottom of the other one about the teenaged Russian rebel thing—OW!" He sprang back from the panel in a miniature shower of sparks, shaking out a hand before shoving a couple fingers into his mouth. "Mmmstupidpiecea—"

"The use of expletives will not improve our situation, Captain," Spock remarked, taking Kirk's place at the controls. Within seconds, the square hatch popped open.

"Wha—I just— _really_?" Kirk allowed himself a second to pout, then shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"Thank you, Captain."

…

Chekov drifted through a bleary haze, wanting nothing more than to find somewhere to lie down for a while. He was exhausted, dizzy, and confused. Last he remembered, he was cuffed to a biobed in sickbay, talking to Matharus, discovering he had powers he didn't even want, and seriously freaking out about it. Everything after that was a swirled mess.

…Except for Spock's unexpected appearance inside his brain. Chekov had been able to see and hear most of what had gone on, slipping in and out of focus once or twice as they conversed, but came away with one crystal-clear point: he wasn't alone anymore. No more awkward encounters with friends and coworkers, no more questioning his sanity while weighing his options. Now his friends had at least some idea of the bizarre web he'd been caught up in and were ready to do whatever they could to help untangle him.

Chekov relished the thought, sliding beyond consciousness for a while, then becoming vaguely aware that he was bumping around in somebody's arms. Someone was carrying him…?

"Hang on, Chekov." The voice belonged to the captain. "Almost there."

Almost where?

"Medbay's just around the corner."

Chekov cracked his eyes open as much as he could without feeling like they were on fire, which wasn't far. Above him, the cool, clean medbay ceiling lights sped past in wobbly streaks. The captain slowed and, to his relief, took the path away from the psych ward. Soon he was being deposited onto one of the biobeds near medbay's main hub. If he remembered right, these ones didn't have built-in restraints.

"What in the Sam Hill's going on, Jim?" Dr. McCoy appeared above him and, without hesitation, proceeded to stick wires to his head and chest and replace the IV line Chekov had pulled out before his earlier escapade. "I've got people flooding the place in all sorts of conditions! Burns, broken bones, lacerations…"

"Casualties?"

"None so far, thank the all-merciful heavens. Let's just hope we can keep it that way. And where _was_ he?!" The doctor brandished a hypo in Chekov's direction. "His room looked more like he'd had a visit from the horsemen of the apocalypse than—"

"Shuttlebay six. You're welcome." Kirk held out something round and shiny. "Here, I think this… _kind_ of belongs to him."

Chekov followed the exchange and watched Dr. McCoy hastily place the sphere on the bedside table.

"Listen, Bones, I've got a few small problems I need to look into right now."

"Only a few?" McCoy drew the divider curtain partway closed as he followed. "Jim, how in the cotton-pickin'…"

The rest of the doctor's sentence was drowned out by distance and the bustle of incoming patients, but Chekov didn't care. Whatever the IV was pumping into him was starting to work wonders on the headache and that was all that mattered. After a few minutes of staring absently at the ceiling while the cocktail dampened the world around him, he turned aside to take the sphere, noting with mild interest that he'd ended up one bed over from a still unconscious Schvaneveldt. The man looked a lot better than Briony's description of the accident had lead him to believe; several bruises and cuts, maybe a cracked rib or two. Chekov snorted. At least the guy didn't have an entire civilization stuck in his brain.

On that note, the ensign shifted his attention to his own monitor, hoping to catch a glance of anything interesting it might be picking up from his head…and froze.

 _I AM WATCHING YOU_

Those words...

Those were _his_ words scrolling across the screen in bold-face.

 _I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE_

 _I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING_

Ignoring the sharp jab of pain brought on by sudden movement, Chekov sat up, eyes widening and heart racing.

 _AND IF YOU AREN'T IN THE VAULT IN FIVE MINUTES WITH THE ARTIFACT IN YOUR SORRY LITTLE HANDS…_

 _SHE'S DEAD_

 _YOUR MOVE, GUARDIAN_

"Briony," he whispered hoarsely. " _Oy, nyet_ … _Briony_!"

Without a second thought, he sprang from the biobed, yanking off every single one of Dr. McCoy's freshly replaced wires. He had just freed himself of the IV when a strong jolt, like a focalized earthquake, sent him toppling forward. Fortunately, the vacant bed next to him cushioned the brunt of the fall.

Dazed, he scrambled back to his feet to gauge the torrent of medical personnel, crew members, and patients rushing past him. As his head began to spin out of control, he had no choice but to hope for the best and dive in.

The jostling current swept him toward the entrance. Traffic in the hallway beyond the brief bottle-neck at the doors was faster, not as constricted. He darted between people like a hunted gazelle, hung a left into an adjoining corridor and continued his panicked dash until he came to a functioning lift.

"Hey, what're you doing?!" yelped the previous occupant when Chekov grabbed him by the shirtfront and pulled him out.

"Move-move-move!"

Swapping places with the bewildered crewman, Chekov poked the touchpad over and over until the doors closed. Woozy as he was, the moment the insufferably slow lift opened onto the right deck, he sprinted all the way to the archives, passing through them without too much difficulty before approaching the darkened vault.

"Bri…Briony!" he called breathlessly, sliding through the entrance. "Briony, where are you?"

"Stop yelling, pajama-boy," came the answer from somewhere in the blackness, "she's right here and she's fine."

That voice...he recognized it, however it seemed off-kilter, slightly warped in some way he couldn't quite place. Chekov wheeled in every direction, searching until he spotted an unsettling pair of fiery amber points of light hovering in the void of a deep corner. They were eyes, he realized with a sickening pang, and, though pupil-less, he could sense them scoping him thoroughly. Instinct and ingrained protocol training caused him to reach for his sidearm, only to remember he didn't have one when his hand closed on empty air.

"And she'll stay that way as long as you make the right choice."

"Wh-who _are_ you?"

"What, you think I'm just going to tell you?" scoffed the voice. "Hm, no fun in that. How about I amp up the entertainment factor a little—my entertainment factor, not yours—and let you take a guess? Hey, you've even caught me in a relatively good mood, so I'll be generous and give you a hint."

Chekov's mouth dropped open as out from the shadows stepped the last person he expected to see. Wrapped tightly in one of his arms with a phaser to her throat was a squirming Briony. Much to his relief, she seemed more angry than frightened or hurt.

"Sh…shcna..vanadelt?!" he spluttered out finally.

"Ugh," the much more menacing, almost inhuman version of the tall xeno-archaeologist rolled his eyes, "not even close. My bad, I forgot the whole speech impediment thing you've got going on."

"It's an accent," snapped Briony, "not a speech impediment, you idiotic—"

"Don't care." Schvaneveldt shoved the phaser deeper under her jawbone, then cleared his throat, businesslike. "Right, anyway, on second thought, I think I actually will just tell you who I am. My name—my _real_ name—is Araxis."


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

"Can I take a moment," Araxis went on after stifling an unsettling laugh, "to say that it's pretty pathetic how well that worked? I think the real lesson here, though, is to never leave your technology unattended. Don't tell me your mother never got after you for leaving your stuff lying around." With an admonishing nod, he indicated a pile of crates to his right. Sitting wide open on top of it was Chekov's laptop, the schematic of the ship, complete with his meticulous programming, filling the whole display.

"I found it sitting on the lift all by itself." The man sniffed in mock sadness. "It looked so…so _lonely_ , I just had to take it with me. Newsflash, turns out, it's really easy to find and track someone using their own program on their own computer."

Chekov could only stare in humiliated silence. All of his precautions, all of his planning, and he had to lose his mind and drop his laptop at the worst possible moment in the worst possible place.

"As much as it pains me to admit, I guess I owe you one, kiddo. You would not _believe_ the endless galactic scavenger hunt I've gone through to finally arrive at this moment. Ha, until a few nights ago, I didn't even know what I was looking for. I mean, I knew I was close, but that very informative brush with death you experienced saved me a lot of trouble, let me tell you. Good thing, too, because I was about to throw that sphere in the box with the other junk I'd been packing up to sell."

"That…that was _you_ stealing from the archives?!" cried Briony.

"Great cover, huh?" Araxis beamed. "Ahh, and to think I'd been so wary of commandeering this self-centered human at first."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"Pay attention, because I'm only going to explain this once. I can't survive without a physical form, therefore Araxis and Schvanevedt are two different beings in a single body. I'm lucky to have found him just before my previous host so inconveniently succumbed to extreme exhaustion. I call it 'body hopping'. Clever, isn't it?"

"No, it's disgust—" started Briony.

"I wasn't talking to you!"

"Sorry, _geez_."

"Yes, anyway, what an amusing game this is turning out to be. Stealing older-than-dirt technology, duplicating artifacts, getting filthy rich on the side with minimal effort—not that I care about such primal desires, but one must sometimes satisfy the petty needs of the host to further one's agenda. Speaking of which, I _would_ have successfully framed Dr. Sylar, but kid-genius here had to go berserk all over the bridge and I got buried under rubble instead. I mean, I was _right_ in the _middle_ of _exchanging_ the—agh!" He squeezed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath. "I won't lie, that hurt in more ways than one. Curse this stupid, clumsy cage of a human body with its endless defects and limitations."

"But I…I _saw_ you in medbay," Chekov spluttered.

Araxis plowed in with an obnoxious and incredibly accurate imitation of a sports buzzer.

"Wrong! You saw the projected hologram I activated while everyone stood there watching you run out of the psych ward dragging wires and screaming like a maniac. Nice distraction, by the way. Very classy exit; both useful _and_ entertaining. I love it when things are entertaining."

Despite the insult, Chekov's memory rolled back to the empty biobed that caught his fall only minutes before. The device casting the image of an injured Schvaneveldt must have been shaken loose by the explosion…

Wait, the _explosion_ … If he remembered correctly, there had been a couple others before the one that knocked him off his feet in medbay, both of which had sent personnel, including the senior staff, rushing off in every direction _away_ from the archives. Even a citizen of a developing planet unable to so much as comprehend the idea of space travel would understand that the archives couldn't possibly be essential to basic ship function during a crisis…

And now here he was, alone, weaponless, and barely able to see straight. He'd wobbled right into the hands of a warped and dangerous man he could no longer be sure was actually sane. Or human, for that matter.

Instinctively, Chekov clutched the sphere to his middle, stepping back.

"Aw, come oooon, no fair," whined Araxis. "Don't make this difficult. You'll only cause yourself more pain and embarrassment and I don't have the time to sit back and actually enjoy it right now."

"Don't you dare give it to him!" shouted Briony. "There has to be another—"

"Will you quit—" He jabbed the phaser into her neck a little harder. "You are so _annoying_! I just… _how_?! Where does it all come—" His attention returned abruptly to Chekov. "Never mind, getting off topic. Listen, twerp, if you're gonna play, you need to get one thing straight; this is _my_ game and we're playing by _my_ rules. That means I'm calling the shots and I want the sphere. Now."

"No," Chekov said immediately. "I will never—"

"Nobility alert! Somebody didn't get the memo that I make the rules! Here, I'll lay them out for you in nice, small, simple words." Araxis cleared his throat. "You, brain-challenged hooman, have shiny magic ball. Me, mega-brain genius, _want_ shiny magic ball. If you no give shiny magic ball…uh-ohhh, me make spaceship go boom. Then me take shiny magic ball from cold, dead fingers anyway. Ooh! Me even prepared with visual aid! Three…two…one."

" _OY, NYET_ —" Chekov went sprawling as another nearby explosion rocked the whole ship.

"Whoopsie."

"Stop! Please, you hef to stop doing zat! People are getting hurt!"

"I'm a busy guy. I have places to go, things to do, and I could care less about blowing up your ugly boat once I leave it. Until then, however, I'm afraid I have no choice but to detonate another surprise, each more exciting than the last, for every minute of my time you waste." A grin crawled along Araxis's thin, nearly colorless lips. "Your move."

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" Briony struggled in the man's hold. "How did you even—"

"Oh, _so_ easy. Just like I've been stealing artifacts, I've been building and stashing explosives every couple of weeks since I got on this garbage tank. Lack of security much?" He snorted. "Here's a suggestion: if you don't want awkward situations like this coming up, don't build ships with such conveniently camouflaged crawlspaces. Also, update your technology already. Ugh, I can barely stand it."

Climbing back to his feet, Chekov glanced down at the sphere still clenched in his fist. The lives of everyone aboard the _Enterprise_ were now on his shoulders. All of his friends, his entire family, everything he knew and loved would be systematically destroyed if he didn't hand over this tiny piece of metal…

And yet, it wasn't just a tiny piece of metal and they both knew it. He was the sole beacon of hope to a world full of real people with real lives yet to live. A world depending on him to return them safely home. How could he deny them what they had been waiting unfathomable ages for?

"Still not working for you? _Wow_ , you're a lot more dense than I thought! I know, let me pull out the big exposition guns and take it from another angle. I know who you are, squirt, and I know exactly what part in this tale you play. In fact, I probably know more about it than you. Question is…do you know anything about me?" He let go of Briony, shoving her to the floor before taking a menacing step toward Chekov. "Get lost, chubby."

"Hey!"

"Do you know that I've literally spent an eternity taking on countless forms, living countless lives in search of the artifact you're holding in that inferior, shaking hand?"

He paused to allow Chekov space to answer, but the boy remained frozen.

"No? Well, let me tell you a little about myself. My name is Araxis and I love stirring up trouble and making messes and I live for pulling the cosmic rug out from under anyone within reach and watching everything fall apart because it's infinitely entertaining…" The grin faded into a disturbingly child-like expression of irritation. "Except when things don't go my way."

"Shut _up_ , you moronic freakshow reject!" Something long and metallic glinted in Briony's hands as she suddenly rushed Araxis from behind.

He turned on her, flinging out an arm, and to his horror, Chekov could see flecks of orange and yellow energy flowing from the man's fingertips. Araxis seized the solid shard of metal as Briony took a swing, wrenching it from her grasp and twisting it until it snapped in half. Then, after throwing it aside, his eyes flared and a massive, scorching ball of wind and flame swirled into existence above him.

"I said…GET. LOST."

"Briony, MOVE—"

Chekov's warning came too late. With the flick of a wrist, Araxis sent the whirlwind thundering toward the petrified girl, hurling her backwards to crash into the opposite wall.

"NO!" There was no hesitation. Despite his unsteadiness, Chekov broke into a full sprint for his fallen friend. No more than three bounds in, he heard the phaser, then felt an excruciating burning in his left leg just above the knee joint. Screaming in agony, he dropped to the floor, but he didn't have the pleasure of staying there for long. A white-hot, suffocating force, almost the exact opposite of what he'd experienced when Matharus had frozen him in place, enveloped him completely.

Bright, crackling ribbons of red, orange and yellow light wound tightly around his limbs and body like ropes of pure flame, jerking him into the air. Heedless of his flailing attempts to maintain contact with solid ground, they flung him twenty feet across the room, slamming him against the row of lockers.

"You have no idea how satisfying this is." Araxis paused to allow himself another inhuman chortle. "I haven't had this much fun in _centuries_. Oh, and look! The big guy's symbolically shoving the little guy into the lockers! How cute is that?"

Through blurred vision and heatwaves, Chekov watched him draw closer until the amber eyes hovered less than a foot away from his face. Apparently unsatisfied with the amount of terror and discomfort his victim was already enduring, the creature resembling Schvaneveldt decided to take things a step further and seized him by the throat. The move was wholly unnecessary, as the blazing particles had already immobilized Chekov.

"First Briony, now you. Aww, and _look_ at you, the high and mighty bridge-crew officer, so vulnerable and scared with nowhere to run…even if you could. Too bad nobody volunteered to babysit tonight."

Araxis reached for the sphere, which had miraculously remained in the teen's grasp through the pummeling thus far. Forcing an involuntary, pain-ridden gurgle of fear through clenched jaws, Chekov gripped the round artifact, channeling into his fingers every last shred of strength and determination he had left, but it was no use. Araxis plucked it easily from his hand like an apple from a tree. Eyes gleaming in triumph, he studied Chekov a moment. Then, the fiery power released the teen and he crumpled to the ground in a heap.

"I guess I should have told you earlier, but better late than never, right? This is my stop. I'm finally getting off this glorified shuttle and _you_ get to come with me. Surprise!"

…

"Captain on the bridge!" someone shouted as Kirk bounded off the lift into controlled chaos with Spock and Uhura on his heels.

"Sulu, status report," he commanded over the din.

"Aye, sir. Multiple explosions on decks A through C, gradually increasing in severity and quantity—"

"Captain," another crewmember addressed him from behind. "Phaser fire…in the archives."

He whirled. "The archives?"

"Sir," came a third petition for his attention, "unidentified vessel off the port bow…"

" _Now_ what?" Kirk muttered through gritted teeth, turning back the other way. "How big?"

"Small…uh, possibly a cargo vessel of some—"

"Any distinguishable Klingon or Romulan markings?"

"No, sir—"

"Good. It can wait, but keeps tabs on it just in case."

"Aye, sir."

"Captain," Spock said by his side.

"What _is_ it, Spock?" The question came out with a little more force than he'd intended.

The Vulcan continued despite his friend's exasperated outburst. "Given that the explosions seem to be concentrated in the upper levels of the ship, it is only logical to assume that the culprit is endeavoring to draw our attention away from the lower decks."

Kirk blinked. "Did you say they're trying to..."

"Affirmative."

"Oh, _no_. It's not sabotage—"

"—It's a distraction!" finished Uhura. "Someone wants to keep us occupied up here, but why?"

Kirk stared at her, eyes widening suddenly. "Phaser fire in the—Spock, you have the conn."

"Aye, sir."

"Uhura, you're with me! The archives—go-go-go!"

…

Someone was shaking her shoulder and calling her name repeatedly. Was it time for work already? She could have sworn she'd just flopped into bed, but…but her head…it ached terribly. What could she possibly have done to cause such an ache? Bits of memory floating just out of her reach began connecting…artifact…with a mandala…the vault…glowing eyes and sparks…a powerful, scorching blast of wind—

"I'M NOT DEAD!" Briony gasped, snapping bolt upright, which she immediately regretted. "Aagh, my head—make it stop…"

"Easy. Just take it easy…"

That voice… But how…? She blinked, trying to bring the face in front of her into focus.

"That's it," Dr. Sylar encouraged with a hand on her back.

Dr. Sylar? Schvaneveldt—he was innocent! Dr. Sylar was innocent and she'd…

"Oh—oh, no—I _shot_ you!" she blurted, noticing the nasty gash on one side of his head. He must have hit something on his way to the ground.

"Yes. Yes, you did. On the lowest stun setting, fortunately."

"B-but you didn't steal the—I destroyed the door! How did you get out?"

"I found one of those passages you mentioned. Schvaneveldt's probably been using it for months and we never even noticed…" he trailed off, clenching a fist in frustration and shaking his head.

A shiver ran down her spine. "Uggh, I don't know what that was, but it _wasn't_ Schvaneveldt."

"What are you talking about? Schvaneveldt's still in med—"

"No, he's not. I ran in here after I…" She swallowed. "He's not Schvaneveldt. I don't even think he's actually human."

"What do you mean?"

"He was waiting for me here in the vault. His eyes were glowing this weird, creepy…and he said his real name was 'Araxis'."

"Araxis?"

"Yeah, and he has some seriously freaky powers going on all of a sudden. I mean, he used a sort of…telekinetic…" she waved a hand around, sifting through her muddled mind for an appropriate word, "… _force_ …on me—took the phaser right out of my hands—kind of like how Chekov…"

Her eyes widened as she searched the room in vain.

"Wait, Chekov! Where's…"

She was interrupted by a shout from just outside the doorway and two people, one in red and one in gold, came dashing into the vault to join them, each armed and looking as if they had just completed a marathon.

"Captain!" Briony said, not entirely sure what to make of this reappearance.

"Phaser fire," were the first breathless words out of his mouth. "There were reports of…phaser fire…"

"Thank every star in the galaxy you're here! Chekov…Chekov's missing!"

Gasping, Captain Kirk leaned over with his hands on his knees and shook his head. "Not…not anymore. I got him back to med—"

"No, he's _not_ in medbay!" Briony exclaimed urgently, scrambling to her feet. "He was _here_ —both of them were!"

"Both of who?" asked Lieutenant Uhura.

"Chekov and Schvaneveldt—except Schvaneveldt isn't really Schvaneveldt and he escaped medbay to use me as bait to lure Chekov to the vault so he could take the sphere and they had this whole confrontation…" Briony squeezed her eyes shut, grinding her fists into her temples. "Gah—t'ghjust—okay, I don't know how it all fits together chronologically, but they were definitely here and they're definitely _not_ here now—"

 _"Bridge to Captain Kirk_ …"

The captain swiped the communicator from his belt. "Go ahead, Spock."

 _"We are picking up an unauthorized beaming signal from the transporter room."_

The four of them froze before exchanging wordless, openmouthed glances, each having already put together the sparse pieces of information they were lucky enough to have.

…

Zyrete had always worked alone.

Her ship, the _Mouruka-Riibu_ , was compact and sleek in design, one of the fastest in the business and ideal for those looking to move small amounts of goods—legal or not—quickly and without attracting too much attention. Never one to shy away from a fresh challenge, she'd made a name for herself taking the odd gigs nobody else would touch. Her travels took her to interesting places, she made friends and connections, even an enemy or two, and the abundant payment and reputation she gained in return weren't so bad either.

That was how he must have heard of her, why he'd approached her one day in a busy trading cross-roads hub. Though something about his voice made her tail bush out just a bit, Zyrete listened calmly, leaning against the bar and sipping a drink as the tall man talked over his offer like a parent would talk to an exceptionally slow child. He was arrogant, brash, impatient, and seemed to be trying to intimidate her, but a job was a job and he was nothing she hadn't dealt with before.

The task sounded easy enough. Typical black-market run, this time dealing in valuable artifacts. She maintained certain boundaries, of course, but as long as there was a profit to be made, she usually didn't care what kind of goods she was transporting, preferring to stay as far out of the current client's personal business as possible.

The deal went down, they parted ways and she didn't hear from him again…until today, a few hours ago. Luckily, she'd been in the area when the message came through, which meant a shorter trip, and in turn, less time standing between her and another well-earned remuneration.

Her confidence took a dive, however, as she approached the specified coordinates. It wasn't unheard of to meet practically in the middle of nowhere for a drop or pick-up, but this particular piece of nowhere was already occupied by a Federation starship. A big one at that.

Immediately wary, Zyrete eased up on the throttle, giving the ship a wide berth. She'd had dealings with several Starfleet officers before, a couple of them pretty high up the command ladder. Every organization had its dirty little secrets and the Federation was no different, but a whole ship? That was bizarre.

She guided the _Riibu_ in an arc, observing the starship from stem to stern at a safe distance, hopefully just beyond standard scanner range.

"Hm…the _Enterprise_ ," she said with mild interest.

The ship was a beauty, as Federation vessels always were, sleek and powerful with a body built for speed and efficiency. Zyrete couldn't help but wonder what kinds of fancy gadgets and scientific equipment they had onboard and secretly hoped for an opportunity to take a peek inside one of these things someday.

"Don't worry, girl," she said, patting the control panel as the _Riibu_ gave a slight shudder as if in jealous protest. "I still love you the most. They always pack way too many people into those starships, anyway."

She skimmed past the back ends of nacelles, dipping below the ship while her mind raced through various questions and possibilities. This was obviously strange, but there was nothing to indicate some kind of malicious prank or foul play. Not yet, at least. Still, out of habit, one hand lingered over the throttle just in case. After a few more cautious moments of careful surveillance, it occurred to Zyrete that the _Enterprise_ appeared to be at a complete standstill. Not only that, but everything was eerily quiet. Flying so close to a big starship like this, she thought they would have tried to hail her by now, requesting identification and purpose…

On second thought, forget it, something was definitely off with this picture. She was about to call it a bogus gig and bail for the sake of her own skin when a voice finally crackled through the comms panel, making her jump.

 _"—raxis to_ Riibu _, come in_ Riibu _…"_

She fumbled for the button.

" _Riibu_ , here," Zyrete replied quickly.

 _"Oh, good. At least_ someone's _not being insuff—ly—tupid—"_

The transmission sizzled out briefly.

"Wait, what?" Zyrete asked. "Was that an explo—"

 _"Standby, we're beaming aboard…"_

"Aagh, whoa, whoa!" She scrambled to bring the _Riibu_ to a stop. "Do you _want_ your atoms scattered from here to—also, what do you mean by 'we'?"

She bolted from the pilot's seat to the hatch at the end of a narrow passageway directly behind the cockpit. In a fluid movement, she dove in feet-first, catching the worn railing on each side of the ladder and sliding the rest of the way down. Landing lightly at the bottom, she turned just in time to see the glowing swirl of an incoming transport. She shielded her eyes as the miniature tornado of light grew brighter and a shape began to materialize.

"Are you crazy—" Zyrete stopped short, eyes widening in pure shock.

Standing in the middle of her cargo hold was Araxis, the tall, haughty man who had commissioned her several months before, this time in a blue Starfleet uniform. And he wasn't alone. Struggling in his grip was a slightly smaller, much younger, and obviously injured human.

"Shut _up_!" Araxis hissed to the boy as he attempted to scream something through the hand clamped over his mouth.

"What's this?" Zyrete demanded, motioning to the distressed boy. "Who is this?! Where's my cargo?!"

"My apologies, fuzz-face, but I'm afraid there's been a last-minute change of plans."

"Who _is_ he?!"

"Oh, him?" the man said as if noticing his victim for the first time. "He's the change of plans."

A wave of anger overcame her, flushing out the initial shock. "You _told_ me I would be transporting artifacts. That was the deal."

"You still are." Araxis let go of the boy, allowing him to drop before stepping over him. "And it still is."

"This is a person, you idiot, not an artifact!" Zyrete growled through bared fangs. "I don't traffic people! _Period_!"

"Well, you do now. Congratulations."

"I don't think so." She planted herself firmly in front of the ladder. "Deal's off. I don't want your business, I don't want your money, and I don't care if I ever see your disgusting mug again. Get off my ship before I shove you out the airlock—"

Araxis's eyes suddenly flared a terrifying, unnatural amber hue before he seized her by the throat and lifted her easily off the ground. Boots dangling, she clawed at his hand as he slammed her into the ladder and held her there.

"You're lucky I just finished giving this brat the beating of his life, otherwise you'd be right there on the floor with him. As amusing as that would be, that's not what I hired you for, is it?" His grip loosened and her feet met the floor again with a heavy thud. "But I'll definitely keep it in mind for later. Now get… _moving_."


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

On the floor, Chekov struggled to stay afloat in a storm of pain and disorientation as the pilot quickly ascended the ladder. Though dazed, he was aware that he had a few seconds between now and departure, a tiny window of opportunity in which to make one last move and he intended to use it. But what could he do? Find a wrench and disable the craft in record time? Hack into an unfamiliar system to signal for help? He was probably capable of both, however, in this state it was difficult just to stay conscious.

 _Come on, Chekov, think! You're in a huge mess and everything hurts, but you can get out of it. You have to…_

 _"…is the_ USS Enterprise _, please identify…"_ came the distant crackle of a ship-to-ship transmission from the cockpit above them.

Chekov froze, as did Araxis. The two exchanged an intense glance, then catapulted into action at exactly the same time. One launched for the ladder while the other came barreling in from the side. Chekov unexpectedly ducked and slid past his assailant in the nick of time, tripping him up while he crashed into the ladder.

"I'm here!" he screamed, clinging to the railing with both arms. " _Enterprise_ , I'm here!"

Araxis righted himself, then caught the teen around the middle and commenced a zealous campaign to wrench him from his newfound stronghold.

"They can't hear you," Araxis growled. "I thought you were supposed to be a genius!"

"Then why are you trying to stop me?!" Despite the fresh agony, Chekov tried with varying degrees of success to kick backwards with one leg. "Let go!"

"Ow! No, _you_ let go of the stupid ladder—"

" _NNNYET_!"

 _"Unidentified vessel, this is the_ USS Enterprise _, please respond…"_

"I'm right here, _Enterprise_! HELP!"

"Shut up! Shut up and let _go_ —"

With a shift in position and a substantial yank, Chekov was jarred loose and they both went sprawling to the ground with the boy landing on top of a winded Araxis. Chekov rolled aside in an attempt to make another break for the ladder. It was short-lived, however, and all too soon, he was once again in the less than gentle grip of the angry man. Hollering anything he could think of in a mess of Russian and Standard and throwing elbows left and right, Chekov thrashed, hoping to upset Araxis's balance on their way back to their feet. He had no idea what exactly had gone down on the bridge several hours earlier, but if he could give Captain Kirk a black eye while in a trance, maybe he could throw this guy off.

"Stop that! Quit scream—hold still!" Araxis snarled as the battle stumbled toward a far wall.

"Let me _go_!"

"You are the biggest _nuisance_ I've ever had to deal with! It amazes me they even let you on that ship in the first—AAGH! OW—you _bit_ me!"

Once he'd gotten a firm grip on one of the villain's hands, Chekov chomped down hard on the fleshiest part he could find. Araxis may have been a being of higher power and intelligence, but as he'd so blatantly disclosed earlier, he was occupying a human body with plenty of useful weaknesses to exploit.

"Pain receptors!" Araxis shrieked. "Why does this thing have so many pain recept—AAGH!"

Encouraged, Chekov abandoned the current site and hastily found another a little farther up the arm.

"Uugh, you're leaving _teeth_ marks, that is so disgusting! Get _off_ , you vile little savage!"

In a surprise move, Araxis twisted, slamming the ensign against a large pipe running from floor to ceiling. Skull met metal with a dull clang and the cargo hold swirled out of focus. Araxis relinquished his grip and let the stunned and bleeding Chekov slide limply to the ground where he slumped against the pipe.

"I swear, if this gets infected…" Shaking out his hand, Araxis dropped into a crouch next to the reeling teen, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. "Congratulations. You've earned yourself the 'Most Uncooperative and Infuriating Abductee, Junior Category' award."

Chekov's only reply was a dazed groan, which Araxis answered by taking his chin in a hand.

"No, no, I believe this is the part where you say _'thank you, o mighty Araxis'_ ," he squeezed the boy's cheeks, making his mouth move in time with the words and mimicking an accent in a high-pitched voice, _"'Lord of Chaos and Doom and Other Such Epic And Delightful Things! I'm wery, wery, wery sorry I followed my lower instincts and tried to eat you, but I promise I will never do aaaanything like zat again. Thank you for sparing my feeble life!'_ "

Cringing, Chekov tried to pull his head away, but was instantly bombarded by a wave of dizziness and nausea.

"What? I think the accent was pretty spot-on."

"Y-you…hurt my friends…"

"Ding! Correct. Ten points for you."

"You hef ze sphere, what…what else do you want from me?"

"Well, I can't _not_ have the matching set, can I?" The villain grinned. "Besides, I thought it was obvious. That sphere is much more than just a vessel for lost souls and you're connected to it, which means _you_ …" he poked the ensign in the chest for emphasis, "are the only one who can open it. There's a nice, shiny surprise worth more to me than anything in this universe waiting inside, and _you_ …" another poke, "are the key."

Eyes flashing with deranged glee, Araxis stood. In that moment of towering triumph, Chekov gained a complete understanding of the humiliating puniness a sparrow must experience in the presence of an eagle.

"So, what now?" The man began to pace, tapping his chin, then stopped abruptly to jab a finger in the air. "Oh, I know! Let's play another game, hm? Don't look so horrified, it's nothing complicated. In fact, it could all be over in a few relatively painless seconds—which would be so much nicer for both of us—if you behave yourself like a good little ensign and _play by the rules_."

Chekov made no response.

"It's called 'Araxis Says'. Are you ready? No? Too bad, you get to play anyway. Araxis says 'sit on the floor'—wait, wait, my bad, you're already there." He snickered. "Ooh, this is too much fun! Araxis says 'make it stupidly easy to lure you beyond reach of help so I can snatch you away from your ship full of _responsible_ adults'." He gasped, clapping his hands to the side of his face in mock surprise. "Oh, my! You're really good at this! I think we'll try something different this time…something a little more useful, maybe?"

The amber eyes narrowed, and Araxis held the sphere in front of him on an open palm. It produced a discordant hum, as if calling out in desperation to its designated protector.

"Araxis says…'open the sphere'."

Clinging to the pipe for support, Chekov glared up at his captor.

" _Nyet._ "

One of the man's eyebrows twitched, dampening his otherwise delighted expression.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that over that _obnoxious_ stubborn streak—"

"It means NO—"

The words had barely left his tongue when a bolt of energy exploded from Araxis's other hand, hitting Chekov in the chest and coiling around him to drag him upright. The boy released a strangled cry and felt a deadly spark ignite somewhere deep within him. The flame it caused grew rapidly, climbing up his spine, spreading through his nerves, and bursting into his lungs, finally forcing out a full-on scream.

"Whoopsie," chided Araxis, "wrong answer. Let's try that again, and make it quick, will you? I've got an irritated smuggler to deal with after this."

The tendrils of raging energy contorted, squeezing until Chekov could hardly breathe. Having already claimed most of him, the searing heat had nowhere else to go but up. Up…into his head. If Araxis reached his mind, it was game over.

"Open it!"

 _Ice._

Fighting debilitating dizziness and terror, Chekov closed his eyes and fumbled through layers of thought and scattered concentration, grasping for any lasting memories of a familiar prickling chill.

 _Feel. Anchor._

"You can't fight forever, kiddo. Might as well face it. You have no idea what you're doing. Also, you look pathetic."

 _Understand. Connect._

He was right. Chekov _didn't_ have any idea what he was doing, but he was certain that if he did nothing at all, Araxis would crush him. Thus would end his valiant but ultimately pointless struggle and the existence of a whole civilization.

 _Ice…find the ice._

"Open it!"

Stinging heat crept up his neck to sizzle at the base of his skull.

 _Shards in an arctic river…under a dark sky…flowing…_

The air around Chekov dropped a slight but noticeable degree.

Araxis faltered. "Wait, what're you…"

 _Stars. Look for the stars._

"Stop! Stop resisting and open the sphere!"

A thin layer of frost danced across Chekov's skin, bringing with it a hint of cool relief. The coils loosened and Chekov opened his eyes to see a bluish glow channeling through his veins to his fingertips where it leaked in a weak trickle of starlight.

Was he…was he actually…

"That's…that's _impossible_! You can't—stop!"

Encouraged by Araxis's mounting unease, Chekov turned his attention to the now levitating and violently humming orb at the center of a swirling storm of energy. He reached, causing stars to snarl spectacularly with sparks.

 _Hold on. You have to hold…_

"NO!" Araxis shrieked, and the ribbons of fire crackled with his fury.

Instinctively, Chekov threw up his hands to shield himself, sending an unintentional ripple through the threads of his own feeble manifestation. The effect was immediate. After a mind-shattering millisecond of deafening silence where time all but ceased, fire and ice collided, and the dueling rivals were blasted apart in opposite directions.

Chekov slammed into the wall behind him and slid to the ground, crippled by total, astounding agony. Drained of all hope and strength, he could only watch as the sphere hit the ground and split in two.

This was it, then.

This was how the story would end.

…

 _Chekov gradually became aware that he was standing in a dim nothingness. Confused and alarmed by the expanse of the void in every direction, he turned slowly._

 _"Hello?" he called, and his voice was soon lost. With rising anxiety, he cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hello? Is anyone there?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _Chekov spun to find the owner of the deep voice, already knowing exactly who it was, but grateful to see him nonetheless._

 _"Matharus…" he said. "What's going on? Where am I?"_

 _"I was kind of hoping you could enlighten me on that. One minute I'm talking to a Vulcan—a very interesting person, I might add—and the next…"_

 _"No, I mean, where am I right now?"_

 _"Ah, in your mind. It's safer to talk in here than it is out there for the time being. Besides, you're unconscious, which complicates things. Humans tend not to physically communicate very well while—"_

 _"Matharus, something has gone terribly wrong! I—we've been abducted!"_

 _Matharus blinked, rubbing his fuzzy chin. "That…does pose a significant problem—"_

 _"That's not all. Araxis has the sphere."_

 _The man froze, eyes widening._

 _"He…what?"_

 _"I'm s-sorry," Chekov blurted, tripping over the words. "He took it from me. He made me open it and now he has the map, too. I'm so sorry! I tried to hold him off. I t-tried to use my powers, but he was too… I was too weak—I couldn't…"_

 _"No." Matharus held up a hand. "You're not weak. Just…inexperienced. And apparently badly injured, which doesn't help. However, I have no doubt you gave it your best. That's more than any of us expected."_

 _"Wow, um…thanks. But I don't think basically handing him everything he wanted qualifies as my best."_

 _"You're still alive, aren't you?_

 _"Uh…I am? I mean, it's kind of hard to tell right now."_

 _"Yes, you are, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation…or maybe we would only it would be a lot more awkward. Anyway, I hate to say it, but you're alive both because of your efforts and because he still needs you. The sphere may be in his possession, but it's worthless without you to interpret the map. Unfortunately, you are_ also _in his possession and he's going to get every bit of information he can out of you one way or another. This is why we must strike first."_

 _"Are you people ever going to figure out that you've chosen the wrong person?" Chekov asked, suddenly very aggravated. "I can't do it, okay? I'm not strong enough to go through that again. I can't defeat Araxis!"_

 _"No, you can't."_

 _"What?"_

 _"Well, not with that attitude, that's for sure."_

 _"Ugh." Chekov rolled his eyes, not exactly in the mood for a lesson on optimism._

 _"Really, though, no human being can withstand Araxis. Not alone, anyway. Only someone with your abilities—paired with some appropriate help—can fight and eventually destroy him."_

 _"Well, then, why did you not warn me about him?"_

 _"We did. Or rather, we tried. The dream, remember? 'The time has come, for Araxis approaches', woooooo, very spoooooky. All of that?"_

 _"Yes, I remember the dream," Chekov snapped, "but couldn't you have at least told me who he is?"_

 _"Not 'who'," corrected Matharus, "'what'."_

 _"Fine, 'what' is he, then?"_

 _Matharus took in a preparatory breath. "That is not an easy answer to give, Ensign Or Chekov. Also one I was hoping to have more time to prepare for. Araxis is…well, he's what a human might call a sentient embodiment of mischief, chaos, and destruction, possessing a sort of 'omnipotence', able to move about the universe much more freely than most and easily bend it to his will."_

 _"Oh, so he's basically a god. Wonderful."_

 _"No. Well…yes, basically…in a sense. Not even we know where these beings originate and how they're able to do what they do. Though very rare and mysterious, beings of his kind have been encountered throughout the galaxy. Your own species has had multiple brushes with them, even worshipped them as deities back in the day, as you undoubtedly already know."_

 _"But…but if they are like him…like Araxis, shouldn't they have obliterated us all eons ago?"_

 _"Not all are the same, which means not all are malevolent. Incomprehensibly powerful, yes, but, as with any species, they have their differences. There are some who actually care for and protect various realities and the creatures who inhabit them. There are others who want nothing to do with anything 'lesser' than themselves. But not Araxis. To him, the universe is his playground and we are objects to be tossed around and tormented. We mean nothing to him and he will do anything just to see what kind of mess he can stir up with whatever happens to be available, be it people, worlds, dimensions—anything. He doesn't fall within the category of 'good' or 'evil', he is a phenomenon, a personified force that exists simply to destroy. Sadly, my people became aware of this too late…"_

 _He trailed into silence as Chekov's heart sank._

 _"He…he's the one who…"_

 _"Yes." Matharus swallowed, then nodded._

 _"I'm sorry," Chekov said quietly after a long pause._

 _"We thought we could control him. We wanted to study him. But we, an advanced race with knowledge and abilities beyond much of the known universe, could not withstand his wrath. So much has been lost to us because of our own arrogance. What little we have left is preserved within the Sphere and only accessible by you. It's not a fate I would wish even on the evilest of creatures. However, we are a learning people, and some of us escaped the encounter not only with our consciousness intact, but with valuable information. In a last effort to save ourselves before we fled, using our combined strength, we were able to bind him to a physical form, therefore containing a portion of his power. He has wandered the galaxy in search of revenge, in search of us, ever since. He'll find a way to break out of his prison soon. It can't hold forever."_

 _"Ayy, perfect. So what happens when he does? And how does any of this help me get rid of him? I'm just a human! An eighteen-year-old human who looks at star charts all day."_

 _"Ah, but we know that he does in fact_ have _limits. He has weaknesses. And as I keep telling you, you won't face this alone. We'll be with you until the end."_

 _The end… The words sent a shiver through Chekov's spine._

 _"All of us. Your friends—both within and without—will be, and our unity will make us strong. Araxis only has himself. We have each other, we have hope, we have sources of strength he never will. Now, I think it's time for you to wake up. It appears we have company."_

…

Someone was shaking him. A low, raspy, and unfamiliar female voice drenched with worry begged him over and over to please, please, please not be dead.

Chekov's eye snapped open and he flung himself upright, gasping like he'd cleared the surface after staying too long underwater. Then, in the next second, when the shock and pain caught up with him, he screamed.

A pair of hands caught him as he flopped back again, easing him into a softer landing on the cold metal floor.

"Eyy, thank the Great Alpha, you're alive. A dead human kid in my hold was everything I _didn't_ need right now."

A blinking pair of lights—no, they were… _eyes_ —hovered just above him in the dark. Strikingly green, reflective eyes with slits for pupils and a certain fierceness about them. Fierceness, he noted, but not malice.

"Try not to move," urged their owner. "I'll be right back."

The prospect of slipping out of consciousness again was a welcome one. It taunted him, promising temporary relief from reality, but the comfort of sleep wandered farther out of his reach until there was no getting it back. With that out of the picture, he couldn't do much more than lie there with his thoughts, and they did not make for pleasant company.

He couldn't see much, which made it the slightest bit easier to pretend he wasn't there at all, but he could still feel everything; the solid floor under his back, the thrum of the ship's engines, the chilliness of the cargo hold flowing over him while the pain flowed freely within. The blood on his face had dried and the miniscule dose of industrial-grade painkillers he had been lucky enough to receive during his most recent visit to medbay must have worn off ages ago. The headache flared, as did the deep, radiating burning of the phaser wound in his leg.

How much more of this could he survive? And if, by some miracle, he did make it through another day, how in the world was he supposed to defeat a god disguised as a human if he couldn't even stand up? None of it made any sense. Three days ago, he was Pavel Andreivich Chekov, just an ensign on a starship doing his job. Now…

Now… _what_?

Who was he?

The emptiness of the questions and the profound lack of answers required to fill it were frightening. He'd been blown off-course, landed in unfamiliar territory, and was now compelled to travel a much different road than the one he'd plotted so carefully for himself. A road that had already pushed him far beyond his breaking points, and was forcing him to navigate with his heart rather than his head. Actual lives depended on how he handled these unforeseen changes to travel plans, and so far, he had failed them.

The sphere was broken.

 _He_ was broken.

Araxis now had full access to the map and, perhaps with a few more rounds of interrogation, its secrets. Matharus and his people were doomed to a massacre of biblical proportions, and while he held some belief in an afterlife, Chekov couldn't bear the thought of spending an eternity in the presence of the thousands of innocent souls he'd dragged there along with him—

The eyes were back.

His heightened fight-or-flight response sent him scrambling for the nearest wall.

"Whoa! I had no idea humans could move that—uh, it's okay, it's just me."

But who exactly was "me"?

Out of the deepest shadow, a crouched figure crept. It had the body and limbs of a human, but traversed the ground easily like a cat. It was the pilot…or at least he assumed it was. He didn't have a chance to get a decent look at her before Araxis dropped him earlier, however he'd been able to distinguish a few telltale feline features.

Inching closer, she tilted her head, revealing the triangle ears on top of it. On a wild guess, he thought she could be a native of Filos, a planet which was home to a race of tribal, cat-like humanoids Chekov had only studied and never encountered.

A light bloomed in her hand, and although it was relatively pale, Chekov shrank from the stinging visual intrusion. Uttering an odd, almost concerned chirp, the newcomer squinted at him a moment before lowering the light and placing it on the ground. Chekov stiffened in a bout of fear-fueled paralysis as she prowled toward him once again, extending a hand—or was it a paw? Either way, it had claws, and whatever she was going to do to him couldn't be good. Choking on a yelp, he flinched…

His overtaxed imagination expected a volley of raking slashes. Instead, he felt two of the cat woman's warm fingers come to rest on his lips.

"Shhh, _kitling_!" she hissed, glancing over a shoulder.

Now overwhelmed by the painful repercussions of his recent movements, Chekov stifled a groan, curling in on himself.

"I know, I know, but I can't help if you don't sit still and stay quiet."

Crouching before him, she deposited a medical kit on the floor, then reached slowly for something strapped to her back, detaching a couple rods of smooth black wood. After placing them alongside the kit, she produced two long and wicked-looking knives from sheaths on each hip, removed a phaser from a thigh holster and plucked two small boomerangs from each boot. Then, the pilot looked him directly in the eyes and raised her hands to show they were empty.

"There. That better?"

Even unarmed, the alien cut an intimidating figure. Tall, lithe, and built for swiftness, her body was covered in a coat of short purple fur with curious bright blue markings circling her face. Dozens of black braids adorned with colorful beads and threads sprouted around the ears and fell dangling just above her shoulders. Her choice in attire was practical. All black. A pocket-peppered jacket. Several belts sporting pouches of all sizes and shapes. Close-fitting pants tucked into well-worn boots. The crowning feature of the odd ensemble, however, was the tail. Wrapped in decorative bits of leather, it flicked back and forth behind her, emphasizing her every move as if it functioned on a mind of its own.

He gave a nod.

"All right, let me get a look at you."

She took his chin gently in one hand, turning his head side to side in slow, quiet observation, expression growing more severe with each passing moment.

"What does that dirty _h'aptethlet_ want with such a young human? Why would he do this to you?"

She sat back on her heels, waiting for the answer Chekov simply didn't have the strength to give. With a small huff, the pilot turned to the medical kit and opened it, taking out the contents and spreading them in an orderly row on the floor.

"I'm Zyrete. Professional smuggler, in case you haven't figured that out already. Got a name for me?"

Chekov remained silent while she gauged the severity of each injury. Finally settling on the phaser wound, Zyrete gathered the required treatment supplies into a pile.

"And nothing," she sighed. "I guess I should've expected as much. Don't worry, I get it. The more someone knows about you, the more trouble they can cause."

Working swiftly, she began to cut away the material around the burned flesh.

"Listen, you don't have to trust me." She snorted. "Heh, honestly, I wouldn't trust me either, but I swear on the Great Alpha's grave I was only expecting a serving of valuable artifacts with a nice chunk of pay on the side, not an injured human child. And, uh, speaking of injuries," she held up a bottle of yellowish goop, sloshing it around a bit, "this is gonna hurt. Sorry in advance."

Before Chekov could say anything, a glob of the stuff came oozing out and landed right in the middle of the burn where it began to fizzle. Horrified by the spectacle, he was totally unprepared for the white-hot searing sensation that followed. The cargo bay tipped sideways, and then everything in it, including him, was sucked into blackness.


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

As if punishing it for being the bearer of bad news, Captain Kirk squeezed the communicator until his knuckles went white. Then, without a word, he jammed the device back into his belt and marched toward the entrance.

"Whoa, whoa, hold it, I know what you're doing…" Uhura rushed after him and seized an arm just before he crossed the threshold.

"Uhura—" he began.

"You can't seriously be thinking of going after them…"

Kirk faced her with his jaw set. " _Yes_ , Uhura, I am. That man—or whatever he is—seriously damaged my ship, injured _dozens_ of crewmembers, kidnapped one of them—he took our _friend_. We can no longer afford to consider him anything less than a terrorist, and as long as he's out there, he's a threat. Somebody has to track him down before he does something worse."

"Exactly." She grasped his arms tightly, looking up at him with a determined glint in her eyes. "And that's why you are _not_ going out there alone. I'm coming with you."

The captain huffed and opened his mouth to counter, but there would be no persuading her otherwise.

"For Chekov. For our Pasha. He's a genius and clever and so much stronger than he lets on, but…but, like you said, he's only eighteen. He's just a kid and he's sick and this is obviously something he can't fight alone. He's going to need all the help we can give him."

Kirk nodded after a moment. "Okay. Okay, you're right." He then turned to the two scientists. "Doctor Sylar, this is just a hunch, but I feel like an expert archaeological consultant might be a handy addition to the team for this particular mission."

"Aye, sir," said Sylar. "But wouldn't it be better if both of—"

Kirk picked up his communicator again, resuming his quick pace with Uhura trotting at his heels.

Not about to be left behind, Brinoy sprang after them. "Hey, wait a minute…"

"Spock, there's been a major development. Remember that unauthorized beaming signal we picked up a minute ago?"

 _"Affirmative."_

"Chekov," Kirk said. "He's been taken by the nutcase responsible for trying to punch the place full of holes."

 _"I assume that the ensign's abduction directly correlates with his condition?"_

"It would be a bad idea to assume otherwise, don't you think?"

 _"Agreed."_

"Captain, wait! I want to—"

"Not now, Woods," he muttered aside to the archaeologist. "Spock, I'm putting together a rescue team. Ship's all yours until we return. Patch her up the best you can and keep the motor running. We may need backup if things keep going south."

 _"Aye, Captain, and good luck."_

"Same to you. Mister Sulu…"

Briony caught up as the other three exited into the corridor from the archives, squeezing past Sylar and Uhura. "Captain, please listen to me. I think I can—"

Too distracted by the urgency of the mission at hand, Kirk continued giving out orders as if she weren't even there. "Get me the last known coordinates of that unidentified vessel and see if you can come up with some kind of trail for us to follow."

 _"Yes, sir, but just warning you, it might be patchy."_

"Better than nothing."

 _"Got it, standby for transmission."_

"Captain Kirk!" Briony slid around him, planting herself in front of the doors of the lift just as he reached for the button. "I'm requesting permission to join the away team. Aside from Doctor Sylar, I'm the only person with any advanced information on that sphere."

"That may be, officer, however, I—"

"With all due respect, sir, I have reason to believe I should be included on this mission." With a visible surge of confidence (or maybe it was desperation), Briony straightened, clearing her throat and adjusting her glasses. "Uh, several reasons, actually."

"And those would be…?"

"Two degrees in archaeology—emphasis in cultural anthropology and a masters in xeno-archaeology, three years of intensive scientific training at the Academy graduating within the top ten of my class, two solid years of professional field and lab experience plus an extensive body of research with several published findings…and a museum studies certificate on the side. I've got it all framed on the wall in my cabin if you need further proof."

The captain blinked, a bemused smile playing on his lips. Although he'd known her less than an hour, this officer's surprising confrontation seemed slightly out of character. It wasn't every crewmember who would risk their career just to be included on an away mission, especially one who seemed to have difficulties keeping her head in a crisis. But her credentials were considerably more than he'd expected, and her request was obviously sincere.

"Always happy to vouch for Miss Woods, if needed," put in Dr. Sylar while Briony beamed next to him. "I'm confident she would prove to be a vital asset to the group. As they always say, two heads are better than one, and I'm certain that applies to archaeology experts as much as anything else."

"Captain, please," continued Briony. "I know I may be a little out of line and I'm probably not what you'd consider 'qualified', but I really think I can help. I _want_ to help." She clasped her hands earnestly, "Chekov…Chekov is my friend, too. Probably the best one I've made since I've been here. You all know he's brave and kind and freakishly brilliant, of course, but I've only known him a few days and he's already made me feel less like a number and more like a person than anyone else on the _Enterprise_. He even went out of his way to help me solve a small, um…personal crisis that popped up. I was confused, alone, and frightened, and…and he's probably feeling exactly the same way right now, wherever he is. He saved my sanity, possibly my life. Don't you think I owe it to him to help save his?"

…

Zyrete launched through the cargo bay hatch into the cockpit. Instead of automatically heading for the controls as usual, she hung a right and stormed down the passageway into the small common area between the ship's living spaces. There, she found Araxis bent over the tiny table at the center of the room. On the surface before him, two halves of a metallic sphere sat open and seemed to be the source of a projected orb of glowing lines and symbols.

"…can't be possible," he murmured to himself, and she could swear his voice was tainted with the faintest drop of uncertainty, maybe fear. "He _shouldn't_ be able to do that. He's too weak, too _human_ —"

"You!"

He jerked out of his thoughts, scooping up the two pieces and snapping them together. The floating orb dissolved as he shoved the whole sphere into the pocket of the long black coat he was now sporting. Quickly recovering his cool haughtiness, he sat back and spread his arms, indicating his outfit.

"I was really sick of that stupid uniform. Like it?"

Zyrete growled and advanced, narrowing her eyes to slits and clenching her hands.

"Take that as a 'no'. So, where have you been for the last—"

"Whatever you detonated after we took off damaged my ship!" she spat. "And where've I been? I've been making sure your little _prisoner_ doesn't die of an infection before you get wherever you're going!"

"Oh, yes, thank you, that would be very counterproductive to my plans if he were to—"

She slammed both fists into the tabletop. "I'm not finished! Where's my cargo, huh? Who is that kid? And what was that glowy thing you were looking at?"

Araxis, altogether unfazed by her angry advanced, shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. "Easy there, fur-for-brains, one question at a time."

That was enough. With a snarl, Zyrete leapt on top of the table, landing in a crouch and unsheathing her knives. She crossed the blades, causing a brilliant crackle as electric currents converged, and she forced him against the wall with his neck between them.

" _Don't_ …call me that again," she hissed, fangs bared.

"Ooh, very nice," Araxis approved after a moment of mild surprise. "I'll have to remember to get couple of those—"

"These'll be the last things you _ever_ get if you don't tell me what's going on. _Right_. _Now_."

"Simmer down and put those ridiculous things away before somebody gets hurt."

"In case you haven't noticed, somebody's already been hurt."

"Touche," snickered the man without the slightest trace of remorse. "All right, all right, listen, I won't refer to you as anything fuzz-related for the rest of our time together, however long that may be. I'll also reimburse you fully for your trouble, the damage, and the cargo. I'll even shell out half up front."

Zyrete retreated slightly, eyeing him from top to bottom. "What's the catch?"

"The catch?"

"There's always a catch."

"Ah, yes, I forget you 'traders' are all the same. So suspicious. Well…it's not so much a catch as a condition."

She lowered the weapons slowly and stepped off the table, remaining coiled in a defensive position nevertheless. "What is it, then? Let's hear it."

"No. More. Questions." Locking her in his inhuman gaze, Araxis rose to his full height. The eyes were back to what she assumed was a normal color, but no less sinister, no less intense. "None. Don't ask me where the cargo went. Don't ask me about the boy. Don't ask me _anything_."

"Yeah? Or what?"

"Think of it in terms of an ancient Earth adage I know…how does it go again? Oh, yes, something like 'curiosity killed the cat'."

She released another deep growl at the insult.

He lifted his hands. "But I swear no harm will come to you if you fulfil that one simple request."

The pilot was no stranger to shady deals (or threats), and this one was already as shady as they came, however, she was usually dealing in valuable objects, substances and resources. Never before had she been involved in the trafficking of living, sentient beings, and she'd vowed long ago that she never would be. Aside from being just plain wrong, there were penalties for such operations in many parts of the known galaxy, and were especially harsh and more numerous the closer one got to Federation space. The sooner she could get this guy off her ship, the better…

But what about the boy?

She thought of how frightened he'd been after finally waking up. She thought of the phaser wound and other injuries she'd finished treating only moments before. She wondered what kind of fate he was doomed to once he stepped off the _Riibu_ …

Whatever it was, it was none of her business, she decided. She wanted no part of it. The last thing she needed was to be caught up in the crooked, filthy world of slave-trading and lose everything. She'd done all she could for the kid, and, honestly, what else _could_ she do other than send them on their way and forget the whole thing?

"I'll take you as far as the Outer Gulch," she said at last. "That's it. No further. Non-negotiable."

"Reasonable enough, I guess," Araxis sighed glancing upward. "There's always some other lowlife idiot out there desperate for a job. I'm sure they would be particularly prevalent in a place called the 'Outer Gulch'."

"When we get there, you will cough up the rest of what you owe me. _All_ of it."

"Of course."

"And then I never want to see your disgusting face again."

He feigned affront. "Ouch. You're mean."

"You think that was painful?" she snapped. "You think I'm mean now? Just wait. If we ever happen to cross paths in the future, I _will_ shoot you."

…

A clanking ruckus invaded Chekov's quiet mental cocoon, but he stayed still, hoping to avoid the pain he knew was waiting to ambush him. Naturally, it was no use, and a rising ache quelled any hopes of sinking back into sleep.

There was nothing else for it. Might as well face his circumstances head-on and get it over with.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, dreading what he would see. Sure enough, his first blurred sight was the dull metal walls and ceiling of a ship's cargo bay. Of course, it was too much to hope that it had all been some terrible dream. What else had he expected?

Groaning, he rolled to one side, gradually realizing that the ground seemed the slightest bit softer than he remembered. He discovered himself to be lying on a thin sleeping mat woven out of dried grass. Furthermore, he found a scratchy blanket draped over him with another rolled up to cushion his head.

Confused and groggy, he raised himself on one elbow for look around. The hold was mostly empty, aside from a few large and dented solid metal crates that appeared to have been shoved or battered by an unnaturally violent force. He was certain he knew what that force was, and was able to confirm his suspicions when he caught sight of the scorch marks marring the center of the floor. This could only be the aftermath of his struggle with Araxis.

Choosing, for the time being, not to dwell on the notion that he was sharing a tiny ship with a powerful, god-like being trapped in human form, he eased into a seated position and folded the blanket back to examine the phaser wound. Instead of the stomach-churning patch of burned flesh he was expecting, he was relieved to see a clean bandage wrapped around his leg several times just above the knee. Curious, he reached up to touch the side of his head, and felt a piece of gauze taped over the previously bleeding lump near his hairline.

His attention shifted to a silver thermos next to a folded pile at the foot of his makeshift bed. Suddenly ravenous, he grabbed it and popped it open to find it full of a meaty orange liquid. It was unfamiliar, but it was hot and smelled delicious, so he immediately tipped it back and gulped it down in a few swallows. Once finished, he wiped his mouth on a sleeve and reached for the clothes, grateful to have an alternative to the thin hospital attire.

It was quite a bit colder here in the belly of a small cargo vessel than the perfectly controlled atmosphere he was used to on the _Enterprise_. He pulled on a pair of dark grey pants, a clean shirt, a jacket, and some boots, topping off the ensemble with fingerless gloves and a knit hat. The outfit was a little loose and shabby, but comfortable and warm, two things the medbay garb were definitely not. He wasn't about to complain.

Feeling a tad steadier after a change of clothes and getting something in his stomach, he decided he could try to stand and perhaps investigate the noise. Clinging to a nearby crate for support, he hauled himself up and began to limp in the direction of the doorway on the far side of cargo area. It was slow going, and he had to stop more than once, but he managed to make it to the top of the metal stairs leading down into what he guessed was the engine room.

He jumped a little as the mechanical din made a reappearance, followed by cursing in a language he recognized but couldn't understand.

Grasping the railing and taking a breath, Chekov made his way down the stairs and found the pilot busy at a hub of pipes, valves and other workings with her back to him. It looked like she'd been grappling with the ship's insides for some time now as she'd peeled down to the tank top layer, leaving the jacket on the floor to serve as a catch-all for an assortment of tools.

The ship grumbled.

"Eyy, easy, my _Mouruka-Riibu_ , I know. I'm doing my best. I have no idea what that guy hit you with, but he sure did a number on you, didn't he?"

"I m-might be able to help you." The words were out before Chekov fully realized what he was saying.

With a hiss, Zyrete whirled around, back slightly arched and tail bushing out.

The boy made a quick backwards retreat, grimacing as he stumbled into the opposite rail. "Ay-yi-yi, wery sorry! I d-didn't mean to frighten you."

Seeing he was nothing to be worried about, she relaxed into a casual stance, one hand on a hip. "So, you _do_ speak."

"I…I heard ze noise, and…I can try to help you fix your 'lucky bird'. If you will let me, I mean."

"And you speak Filosian? Impressive."

"Uh…" Chekov felt his cheeks redden, "n-no, not really, only enough to know zat ' _mouruka-riibu_ ' means, in rough translation, 'lucky bird'."

"Well, now you know my name _and_ my ship's name. Will I ever be so fortunate as to learn yours?"

"Chekov. It's…Chekov."

"Good to meet you, Chekov. And good to see you on your feet."

"How…how long was I…"

"Mm, six hours, give or take. You were banged up pretty bad." With a concerned expression, she paused as if on the verge of asking an important question, but thought better of it at the last second and turned to resume her work. "How's the leg?"

"A little…better?" He eased himself down a few more steps on his good leg, gingerly testing the other one when he made it to the bottom. The pain was still very much there, but manageable.

She nodded. "Hurts like a beast, but _kaw_ spit is probably one of the best natural burn treatments you can get."

" _Kaw_ …spit?"

"Yeah, that slimy yellow stuff. Comes from these big reptile-bird things back home on Filos. They're always flying around and…well, they're kind of a nuisance and pretty stupid, so we use them to train the _kitlings_ who are just learning to hunt. Also, aside from having many useful qualities," she licked her lips, "they're delicious. Mmm, what I wouldn't give for a freshly grilled, juicy leg of _kaw_ right now with some of my brother's amazing fire sauce drizzled on top."

"You hef a brother?"

"Yes. His name is Asha'an and he can be a huge pain in the _etla_ , but I miss him terribly." Her words were full of longing and a hint of deep-rooted regret.

Not entirely sure how continue the conversation, Chekov shuffled and rubbed the back of his neck.

"I…well...I wery much hope you get to see him again soon. Also...thank you. For everything."

"Least I could do." After wiping her hands on a rag, Zyrete faced him again and tilted her head, one ear twitching. "Not to change the subject, but I can't help noticing you sound…different than many of the other Earth people I've met."

"Different?"

"Yeah, you have a very strange…"

"Accent?"

"If that's what you call your thick 'r's and your 'v's that sound…"

"…sound like 'w's, I know," mumbled Chekov, stepping carefully off the stairs. "I am from a country on Earth called 'Russia'."

Zyrete tested the word quietly before attempting it out loud. "R…Ruh-si-ah?"

"Yes, Russia. Federation Standard is not my first language."

"Hm, I came across a guy from a place called 'Can-ah-dah' who spoke Frunch, but I don't think I've ever met anyone from Ru-si-ah before.

"You mean he spoke French?"

"Yeah," she aimed a wrench at him, "that. So, tell me, how can a young _kitling_ barely away from the litter possibly know anything about fixing ships?"

Chekov came up beside her. "I sometimes help our chief engineer when he needs an extra hand. At least…I used to, until…" he trailed into uncertainty, head drooping.

As expected, Zyrete was skeptical. "You mean to tell me you actually… _work_ on that starship? Like, as part of the crew?"

"Yes. I am a nawigator."

"A what?"

"I said I am a naww…a naawwvi…ugh. I am ze one who tells ze ship where to go."

"Ah, I see. Aren't you a little young to be serving on the bridge of a Starfleet vessel?"

Chekov chewed a lip.

"Sorry. You must get that a lot."

He nodded and the two dropped into a few moments of awkward silence.

Finally, Zyrete cleared her throat. "Hey, uh…that freak fried some of the wiring over there." She indicated the panel in question with a nod. "System's been on the fritz ever since. How are you with computers, if you don't mind my asking?"

He shrugged. "I hef picked up a few useful tricks here and there."


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

After handing him a spare set of welding goggles, Zyrete sent Chekov off to work on the electronic panel. He appreciated the distraction of rewiring and rebooting part of the _Riibu's_ central system processor. For a little while, he forgot where he was. He forgot why his body ached. He forgot the looming danger. It was him and a computer, the closest to a comfort of home he was going to get right now.

Located in a tiny annex off the engine room, the main console's set up was more or less standard but small and outdated. Fortunately, the Academy required all cadets focusing on computer science to cross train on several different eras of equipment. Computer science hadn't _exactly_ been Chekov's main focus, but one of several (advanced mathematics, engineering, and physics, to name a few others), and he chose Command specifically for the opportunity to utilize a broad spectrum of skillsets on the job.

Never was he more grateful for these honed capabilities and the added confidence Command training had given him than now. Now that his life depended on them.

After reconnecting and soldering a few wires inside the panel and replacing the cover, he stood before the blinking console and cracked his knuckles. It took some time to get going as everything was in Filosian, but once he dug up a simple translation program, it was relatively smooth sailing. This gave the teenaged part of his brain a little room to wander.

He was all too aware that he was still in great danger. It was plain that Zyrete despised Araxis as much as he did, and she'd patched him up while he was unconscious, but he wasn't sure she could be completely trusted. For the time being, he had no intention of divulging anything other than his name and occupation. And she remained aloof, apparently uninterested in learning any more about him than was necessary—which seemed strange, considering how upset she had been when they beamed aboard. However, he was in desperate need of an ally and fixing the computer system might earn him some favor in the pilot's eyes.

In the meantime, just because he was a skinny eighteen-year-old with a colony of lost souls inhabiting his head and dangerous powers he couldn't fully handle didn't mean he was helpless. He'd somewhat accepted that his demise either at the hands of his enemy or by mental collapse was inevitable, but right now, while Araxis needed him alive, was his time to act. He longed for his _Enterprise_ family. He needed Captain Kirk's loyalty and quick thinking. He needed Uhura's compassion and strength and Sulu's cool-headed determination. And more than anything, though he barely knew her, he yearned for Briony's optimism and intelligence. He knew they would come for him. The least he could do was make it easier for them to find him.

The idea came as soon as Zyrete mentioned the fried system. What he really wanted to do was go back to the mat in the cargo hold and fall asleep, however, he would be stupid to pass up an opportunity that had basically landed at his feet. He may never have such a chance again.

Rebooting the system was easy, and once he finished, Chekov divided his attention between keeping a lookout and implementing the beginning stages of his plan. Armed with a basic understanding of Filosian paired with a taste of the system he would be working with, he plunged in headfirst.

Ignoring the growing throb in his head, he tapped furiously at the keyboard and flicked through window after window full of code. Constantly having to refer back to the translation program slowed him down much more than he would have liked, and he had to start over twice. That, and what the _Riibu_ lacked in comparison to the _Enterprise's_ sleek and efficient cybernetic structure, she made up for in pure, tenacious resilience. It was almost as if she knew what he was trying to do and teased him mercilessly, staying just beyond reach no matter how much he begged simply because she could.

He was about halfway through his third attempt of reasoning with the machine when he heard bootsteps. Immediately, he swiped all the coded windows and pulled up a decoy system reboot status. No sooner had he covered his tracks than Zyrete walked in. He hoped the sweat on his face wasn't too obvious.

She stopped behind him to observe the now functioning console, folding her arms and nodding in approval after a moment.

"Hey, not bad. Gotta admit, I had my doubts, but have you proved me wrong, or what?"

Chekov smiled at her stiffly.

"Thanks, kid. I owe you one…" she paused, squinting at him. "Hm. Maybe you should go lie back down. You look terrible. Here…"

He didn't know why he was surprised when she pulled one of his arms over her shoulders and started helping him out of the room. Maybe it was because of how rough around the edges she initially appeared. Or because he was still on the fence about trusting her. Whatever the reason, this most recent act of compassion tilted his opinion on the latter ever so slightly in her favor.

She guided him to his temporary bed, lowering him down.

…

 _He was back in the void, however, this visit had one significant difference from any before: he'd found his way here himself. No longer afraid of it now that he knew he was simply seeing the inside of his own head, he turned._

 _"Matharus?" he called._

 _Chekov didn't have to wait long for the man to appear in front of him with a raised eyebrow._

 _"Back again so soon?"_

 _"Aren't you the one who told me that together we could be unstoppable?"_

 _Matharus blinked, genuinely puzzled by the direct nature of the question. "I…you…what?"_

 _"You heard me. Well, aren't you?"_

 _"Um…yes…"_

 _"And aren't you also the one who said you were here to provide guidance if I ever needed it?"_

 _"Yes…" he said again, slower and more suspiciously._

 _"And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to remember you telling me that I won't be alone, that you'll be here to the end."_

 _Eyes shifting left and right, Matharus stroked his goatee. "Yyyyes… Are you feeling all right?"_

 _"A little better than the last time we talked, actually. But please answer me. You told me you were going to help me, right?"_

 _"Right, but…"_

 _"I have a plan, and I need your help."_

 _Immediately, Matharus flashed a bright, mischievous grin. "I thought you'd never ask! What exactly did you have in mind?"_

 _"I would like you to try to talk to the ship's computer."_

 _The grin turned into an openmouthed gape. "Uhhh…I'm sorry, did you just ask me to talk to a computer?"_

 _"Yeah. I'm trying to send a distress signal to my friends back on the_ Enterprise _before we're too far out of range, but she's being very…difficult…" Seeing the look on Matharus's face, he trailed. "Um, something wrong?"_

 _"Oh, no, no, everything's fine, I just… have you lost your human_ mind _?!"_

 _"Ha," Chekov snorted, "_ now _you ask me that. You would be the first to know. I thought, since you belong to an advanced race with superior technological capabilities and all, you might know a better way to get through the firewalls."_

 _The boy's complimentary words had the desired effect. Matharus puffed out his chest a little, suddenly beaming with importance._

 _"I…I guess maybe I can take a look. But what do you mean by 'she's being difficult'? Computers are only as smart as the user. I thought you were supposed to be a genius—"_

 _"Don't finish that," grumbled Chekov. "Just don't. I mean that it's taking too long for me to sit around trying to argue with an outdated computer that's coded in a language I barely understand. Under normal circumstances, if I had a few days, it wouldn't be a problem, but I don't._ We _don't. Besides, how is talking to a computer any weirder than me talking to you inside my head?"_

 _Matharus considered. "Hm, well, if you put it that way… I do have to wonder how you intend to get me from your brain into the machine."_

 _"I 'thought' you away once, remember?"_

 _Matharus stuck out his bottom lip in a pronounced pout. "Yes, I remember."_

 _"What's to stop me from thinking you somewhere else? Like, into the computer? If I can do it once, I can probably do it again."_

 _"Wait a minute…waaait a minute, you may be on to something." Smiling again, Matharus threw him a wink and poked him in the shoulder. "I'm finally starting to like the way you think. Who would have thought this day would come?"_

 _"Haha. You are so funny."_

 _"Yes. Yes, I am. Seriously, though, connecting with another living being is one thing, but a bridge between a human and a non-sentient machine without a brain?"_

 _"What other choice do we have?"_

 _"Valid point. Anyway, you know this won't be easy, don't you?"_

 _"Since when has any of this been easy?"_

 _Matharus nodded. "Yet again, a very solid point. Your idea might actually be plausible, but it will require more than I can ask of you this early in your training. You will have to open a portal and keep it open. The connection must not be severed prematurely, or I'll be trapped inside the computer forever."_

 _"How long do you need?"_

 _"Well, long enough to slip across the bridge, tell the computer to shape up, and slip back. It's nearly impossible to estimate a timeline for these kinds of things, especially in human terms. And…more importantly, I worry about how you're going to hold up through all of this. Even after only a matter of hours, your skills are progressing faster than any of us could have anticipated, but…but I'm afraid your mind will weaken just as quickly the more you stretch yourself."_

 _"I…I'll be okay," Chekov said after a beat, hoping the unease hadn't seeped through his words. "I have to do_ something _. I can't get out of this by myself. I need my friends. I need…you. Will you help me?"_

 _"I'll do my best. But this will probably be easier if you're conscious…"_

…

Chekov awoke with a start. He hadn't intended to fall asleep so quickly once he made it back to the mat. He had to have been out a least a couple hours, and while this was good in terms of his physical condition, it could be disastrous for his plan. He had to move quickly.

 _You have to move quickly,_ Matharus urged _._

"I _know_ ," Chekov replied at a whisper, "but if I stand up now, I will probably pass out. Not good."

 _No, no, you're right. Not good._

The teen sat up, taking advantage of the need to let his head clear to sit still and listen. To his relief, all was quiet. There was no clanking or swearing coming from the engine room, no voices that he could discern, only the rhythmic thrum of the engines.

Encouraged by the lack of sound or movement and spurred by necessity, Chekov pulled himself to his feet. It wasn't as difficult as it had been before, which was heartening. Silently, he repeated his earlier trek to the engine room, pausing at the top of the stairs to listen again.

Nothing. He was clear.

 _You're clear._

"Matharus, you don't hef to tell me everything I'm already thinking."

 _Oh, right. Sorry, little nervous._

Chekov hobbled down the steps faster than before, reluctantly parting with the railing at the bottom to limp to the computer room. There was the flickering console, just as he had left it, except the space above it where the windows projected was empty. Good. His progress hadn't been disturbed.

"Hello," he whispered. "I'm back. Did you miss me?"

The _Riibu_ hummed to life with barely the touch of a finger. It was like she'd been expecting him, eager for another round of sweet humiliation.

Bathed in a bluish glow, Chekov resumed his position in front of the console and brought up the last section of code he'd been working on before Zyrete walked in.

"Okay, Matharus."

He waited.

"Matharus…?"

Oh, no. Maybe something was wrong...

"Matharus? Are you there—"

With a flash and a tiny pop, the man in question appeared beside him rather abruptly.

"Gaa!" Chekov yelped, jumping aside and wincing upon landing. "Aaagh—what were you doing in there?"

"My apologies," whispered Matharus. "I got, ah…distracted."

"Within ze last ten seconds? By _what_?"

Matharus shuffled. "I was…watching some antiquated yet epic work of fiction called… _'Star Wars_ '? I can take in information at least four-hundred times faster than any human, so I was..."

"I don't believe this." Chekov groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Eheh, I couldn't help it. You have the whole story and its extended mythology memorized in such fine detail. Wonderful legend, although I'm a little confused about how this 'Force' thing works…"

"Will you please focus? We hef got a job to do!"

"Yes, sorry." Matharus cleared his throat, straightening his tunic. "Focused. Lead the way, Young One—uh, I mean…"

"Don't worry about ze name," hissed Chekov, tapping away at the console and skimming windows at an unnaturally high speed until he found the one he needed. "Bingo! Communications."

"Well done. Now for the connection, then the portal. Let me just…"

"Agh!" Chekov yelped again, holding his head as the other man's consciousness jumped back into his mind. "Why do you always hef to _do_ zat?"

 _So sorry, I keep forgetting._

"I am beginning to think you do zat on purpose."

 _Do not!_

"Riiiight. A higher being conveniently forgets—"

 _It happens, okay? We'll discuss this later. What do you say we give your plan a try?_

Chekov nodded, swallowing. "Okay."

 _Good, good. We're going to have to make this quick. Is everything ready? Coordinates?_

"Yes."

 _Frequency?_

"Yes…"

 _Message?_

"Yes, Matharus!"

 _Okay, okay, just making sure. Let's do this._

Pulling in a nerve-steadying breath, Chekov placed the palm of his right hand at the center of the touchscreen on the console. Somehow, it seemed like the most logical way of creating a link between it and his mind.

The unsettling hum began at the center of his brain. Success.

 _Easy…easy…don't force it…_

He let it bloom in his mind and trickle into his spine like a stream of cool water.

 _That's it. You're doing marvelous._

Very carefully, Chekov opened his eyes. The tiny dots of light crawled over, around, and through every surface, all feeding into his being. They flowed past him in delicate threads, and he realized then that he could touch them, pull at them, make them do anything he wanted. The concept wasn't nearly as frightening as he'd thought it would be.

 _You're beginning to understand them. How they connect, how they shift, how they can be used. Kind of brings new meaning to the term "pulling strings", doesn't it?_

Awestruck, Chekov remained silent and glanced back down at the console where his hand marked the center of a swirling, miniature galaxy.

 _The 'eye'. This is where you concentrate you power. This is the gateway._

Bowing his head, Chekov sent a surge of energy from head to hand. A familiar prickling cold shot through his veins, causing them to glow a pale blueish-white.

 _Open_ , he thought. _Move the stars. Make a doorway. Create a path._

The eye expanded, revealing a black abyss.

 _All right,_ said Matharus. _It's now or never. Wish me luck._

A needle-like electricity shocked his nerves, nearly making Chekov recoil in alarm. Following the flow of energy, a blazing white pinprick of light far brighter than the others skimmed along just under his skin. With an odd pinching sensation, it exited his and was immediately swallowed by the growing darkness.

That was it. Matharus was gone, and Chekov suddenly found himself harboring intense worry for the safety of the man. Without his constant presence and running commentary, his mind felt sort of…empty. Maybe even lonely.

The micro-galaxy continued its gentle, mesmerizing rotation. In a less life-threatening situation, he might have considered it eerily beautiful. For now, it reminded him of the ever-spiraling storm he couldn't escape.

At that moment, Chekov was accosted by a sudden pressure on his open hand, a resistance akin to trying to stretch a thick rubber band with only his fingers. To his horror, he found that the vortex was closing.

" _Oi, nyet_ …"

Droplets of sweat formed on his face and he began to tremble as every thought turned into a morbid possibility. If he relented, if he weakened for half a second, the swirling iris would collapse, trapping Matharus inside the computer, forever separating him from Chekov and the rest of his people. His only lifeline to information would be cut off, he would lose his only guide…he would lose a friend.

 _Keep it open, keep it open…_ he chanted inwardly. _For Matharus…you have to make sure he gets back through…_

Conjuring another branch of energy, he placed his left hand over his right, hoping it would provide further support. It worked until the pressure increased to nearly double its initial force.

"Ay, no!" Chekov cried out in panic. "Matharus, where are you?"

All ten of his fingers curled.

"I can't hold ze portal! Please hurry!"

It was too much. There was nothing more he could do.

"MATHARUS—"

A white speck zipped from the portal into his arm just as his strength failed him and the eye of the tiny galaxy snapped closed. Chekov stumbled backwards and went sprawling onto the floor where he lay gasping in a tense silence…

"M-matharus…? Did we do it? Did you conwince ze computer to send ze distress signal?"

 _Ugh! I have never encountered a more uncivilized piece of technology! Absolutely barbaric. And so rude._

"Is zat a 'yes'?"

 _Yes! Whew! That was too close. Let's not to this again._

Chekov actually laughed out loud in relief, but his joy quickly soured into surprise and horror.

"Have I missed something?" Araxis sneered above him, eyes gleaming over a wicked smile. "I feel like I've missed something. Oh, wait, you were _talking_ to yourself…about sending a distress signal."

Chekov remained frozen, too exhausted and stunned to respond.

Araxis tsk'd at him, filling the gap. "Uh-oh! Somebody has been very bad and isn't playing by the rules like a good boy."

The villain seized Chekov, hauling him out of the computer room. Upon reaching the stairs, he swapped his grip on the boy's collar for an arm around the neck and dragged him back into the hold.

"No…n-no!" cried Chekov, struggling in the man's arms when he realized where they were headed. "Don't—I'm sorry! Please d-don't put me in—"

"You aren't playing the game the right way, so you get to sit in time-out until we land, which should be in about…oh, four hours, or so. Lucky you!"

With a malicious snicker, Araxis unbolted the door of the nearest shipping crate.

"PLEASE!" Chekov screamed. "Let me go—"

"As you wish." Araxis tossed him inside, then waved. "Have fun in jail. Do not pass 'go'. Do not collect two-hundred dollars, and do _not_ try anything."

Chekov scrambled to his knees. "Wait—"

The metal hinges screeched and the door swung to right in his face.

"NO! NO-NO-NO!"

Though he knew perfectly well it was pointless, he threw himself against it multiple times, pounded it with his fists, screamed at it until his voice became strained and raspy. Defeated, he turned to face the blackness of his ten foot long prison, choking on the knot of fear swelling in his throat. Unable to staunch a flood of tears, he slid down the door to the ground, curling into a shaking heap with his hands over his head.


End file.
